Obsideo
by GoddessLaughs
Summary: A hunt along the river leaves Dean and Sam with a little more than they'd bargained for and new trials to overcome.
1. Chapter 1

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I am SO nervous about posting this! Thanks to all who take the time to read it.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **The title of this story, Obsideo, is Latin and roughly translates into the word haunted. Oddly enough, it also translates into obsession._

o(1)o

Dean didn't know that he wept in his sleep.

Not loudly enough to wake anyone, but muted sobs that sounded like they were caught in his throat, almost silent, and filled with a world of pain. He didn't know that, sometimes, he called out for their dad, and, sometimes, his hands twitched, continuing to fight even though he was fast asleep.

Sam sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face and closed the book he had been poring over for the last two hours. It had been just as useless as the last one and the one before that; just as useless as all the others he'd wasted countless nights studying.

But only half as useless as he felt at that moment.

The TV had long since run its gamut of programs, now bathing the motel room in fluorescent blue light and the thrumming silence of dead air. Outside, the patter of rain was punctuated by the rumble distant thunder and the occasional, waning, burst of lightening.

On any other night it might have been soothing enough to lull him into at least an hour or two of broken rest, but tonight, with Dean's low moans alternately breaking his heart and making him want to reach for the holy water, Sam had completely had abandoned the idea of sleep hours ago.

Stretching, he felt the bones in his back pop like a string of firecrackers, a reminder just how long he'd been hunched over that book, and got to his feet with a wince. Pacing around the small motel room did little to help his stiff muscles, but even a little reprieve was better than nothing.

Across the room, Dean's shoulders jerked and his brother's hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning bloodless and white. Sam stopped mid-stride, watching him, waiting to see if his brother would settle back to sleep.

When they had first started their journey together he had been jealous, almost bitter, toward his brother's blasé attitude for the horrors they faced. Dean was always full of quips and cavalier grins and there were times when Sam, grieving and haunted by nightmares of Jessica, had hated him for that.

Now, he wondered how he could have ever been so blind.

He'd only tried to talk to Dean about the nightmares once, on the road to some small down in Nebraska, endless fields of green flying by outside the Impala. He'd interrupted the beginnings of a game of _What's That Roadkill?_ and finally voiced the fears that had been gnawing at his brain for weeks.

In response, his brother hadn't even looked away from the road. Dean had simply quirked an eyebrow and told him to shut up, cranking the stereo until AC/DC had blasted the concern, and any other coherent thoughts, right out of Sam's head.

It was hard to worry about much of anything with your big brother announcing that he 'had the biggest balls of them all' at the top of his lungs.

Sam hadn't brought it up since.

Dean turned over, the motion not quite masking another choked-off sob, and the guilt that had long-since settled in Sam's chest give a wrenching twist.

He was the demon's choice, the one with the destiny that would more than likely see him dead, the prodigal son. But Dean was the one that was always made to suffer for it, for him.

Beaten and bloodied, his brother always got back up, ready for another round of abuse, some smart-ass comment in tow.

Dean hid the sharp pain of fresh injuries as smoothly as he hid the dull ache of long-mended wounds. His brother's demons were unseen, fought long after the hunt had ended, and always fought alone.

For as different as they were, however, Sam knew his brother better than most people gave him credit for, and he knew when Dean was hurting.

Which somehow made it all the worse.

Dean's eyes snapped open the instant Sam reached to wake him, and for a moment his big brother looked so young, so _vulnerable_, that it made Sam's chest ache.

But then he was Dean again, as cocksure and inscrutable as ever as he swatted Sam's hand away, squinting against the faint light that was beginning to filter into the motel room.

"Dude, what gives?"

The words and worry stuck in Sam's throat like paste and he swallowed hard against them, staring at his brother.

Sitting up, Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, gaze flitting around the room for some sign of danger. His left hand remained hidden beneath his pillow, curled around the knife Sam knew was hidden there.

"Sammy?" Dean was more alert now and watching him with narrowed eyes. "Sam?"

Clearing his throat, Sam looked away, "Nothing."

For a moment, he could almost hear the gears turning in his brother's head Dean tried to figure out what was wrong, but then his brother ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up at wild angles, and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Freak," Dean muttered, getting to his feet and shuffling toward the bathroom. "Did you even _try_ to sleep at all last night?"

Sam huffed quietly, shaking his head and ignoring his brother's question. "I need to get out of here," he said quietly, then louder: "I'm going for coffee. Do you want anything?"

The grunt he received in reply was classic early-morning-Dean for 'yes' and Sam grabbed his jacket, shrugging it on.

"I won't be long."

The motel's ancient plumbing creaked and shuddered like a creature in torment and a moment later Sam heard the hiss of the shower

"None of that girly crap you normally get; mocha-choka-latte whatever," Dean yelled from behind the bathroom door.

Amidst the muddle of darker emotions, Sam found a genuine smile. "Right," he called back, hand on the doorknob.

"Grab some doughnuts too."

Snorting, Sam pulled the motel door open, flooding the dingy room with muted daylight.

Outside, morning birds were announcing the beginning of another day and the horizon was awash with the first shades of indigo and peach. The worst of the storm had passed and it was shaping up to be a beautiful morning.

Turning his face to the dawn, Sam stepped out into the parking lot, and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. With the sun rising and Dean awake and as acerbic as ever, last night's worries were beginning to seem exaggerated and insubstantial. Just stress and his imagination working overtime.

He shut the door just as his brother's final yell reached him.

"And no sprinkles!"

Yeah, Dean was going to be just fine.

o()o

There were a lot of brochure-worthy things to be said about spring mornings in the Midwest, especially after a storm: how fresh the air smelled, washed clean by the previous night's rain, the bright green of the grass and the way the sky seemed just a little more blue than usual.

The night crawlers, however, were usually not included in the catalogs.

The stoop outside of the motel was littered with dozens of the fat worms, flooded out of the earth by last night's rain. They sprawled in deep puddles and languished on the grit-covered concrete.

Stepping out of the motel room, Dean's boot met one with a cringe-inducing squish, and he grimaced, looking down at what was left of the hapless creature.

Definitely not brochure material.

"Gross."

Scraping the bottom of his boot off, Dean spied a newspaper that had been abandoned atop a trashcan a few doors down. That was one more quarter he could save for the next motel that had one of those Magic Fingers-type beds.

Stepping over a particularly stout worm, only to squash a smaller one, he snatched the paper from the barrel and made his way back to the safety of the doorway sending two more night crawlers to meet their maker in the process.

"Son of a bitch!"

Definitely, _definitely_, not brochure material.

The newspaper was the same as every newspaper in every small town across America. Leaning against the door jam with his prize, Dean skipped over award-winning tomatoes, high school sports, the rising level of the Mississippi river, and grocery store ads, flipping directly to the two most important parts of any newspaper:

The comics and the obituaries.

There was nothing good in the comics, they just hadn't been the same since _Far Side_ stopped running, and Dear Abby was just as bad.

"Nobody gives decent advice anymore," he groused, turning the still-damp pages, unmindful of the news ink rubbing off on his fingers.

The obituaries proved to be just about as interesting.

Skimming the rest of the paper with a yawn, Dean paused at an article he'd overlooked to begin with, eyebrows rising as he read.

_Yahtzee_.

An exasperated groan from across the parking lot captured his attention and he looked up from the article to see Sam, balancing two cups of coffee and a bag that Dean hoped had doughnuts in it.

His little brother jumped backwards and looked at the bottom of one worn sneaker, his face twisted in disgust.

_Another one bites the dust,_ Dean thought, the corner of his mouth quirking.

After a good shoe-cleaning on the grass, Sam made his way gingerly across the asphalt, probably dodging the little bastards as best he could, until finally reaching the walkway.

He offered Dean a Styrofoam cup and the paper sack looking back over the pavement. "That's just vile."

"Nothing like starting your day with a cup of hot java and a worm apocalypse,"

Sam made a face, giving the parking lot one last scowl. "Anything interesting?" he asked, inclining his head toward the newspaper.

Dean returned to the story that had caught his eye. "Missy Barlow," he read, "twenty two, disappeared four days ago. I think we should check it out."

"You're serious?" Sam's tone was incredulous.

"What?"

"People go missing all the time, Dean. What makes you think this is our kind of thing?"

Flipping the paper so his brother could see it, Dean tapped the article with his finger. "It says here that Missy was six months pregnant and that she was last seen taking a walk along the river."

Sam frowned at the newspaper, brow furrowing. "Wait. Wasn't there something like that at the last town we were at?"

"In Wabasha, yeah," he pulled a doughnut out of the bag and took a bite. "Another girl went missing there too, also with a bun in the oven, also last seen by the river."

"Think we have a pattern?"

"Maybe." Dean tossed the bag to his brother and took a drink of his coffee, taking a moment to savor the taste of bitter caffeine and chocolate. "Couldn't hurt to look into it."

Sam nodded, retrieving a doughnut of his own. "We can hit the library as soon as it opens, see if there are others."

"I can barely contain my excitement."

"Shut up."

Dean chuckled, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Come on, Sammy, where's your sense of humor?"

o()o


	2. Chapter 2

o()o

_**Author's Note: **A gianormous thanks to everyone out there in PCLand who took the time to read and review, what an awesome way to begin a story. Double thanks to Kisume A.W. and Flamingo1 for the concrit, I went back and (hopefully) fixed what you guys had suggested.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **All the creatures that Dean lists off in this chapter are things that people have actually reported seeing, creepy huh?_

o(2)o

The library smelled like dust and ancient books and little old lady.

The combination was enough to make Sam's head hurt even without seemingly endless the boxes of microfiche to sift through. Toss those into the mix and he had a surefire recipe for a one hell of a headache.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Dean, leaning over the front desk, charming the pants, most likely literally, off of the bubbly, pretty library assistant there.

In the background, the actual librarian watched her younger counterpart disapprovingly and Sam turned back around, deciding he had best hurry up and find what he needed before Dean got them both tossed out.

Just another three and a half boxes of articles left to go through. That would only take him, oh say, the rest of his natural life.

Despite the dull pain that was beginning to throb at the base of his skull, Sam had to admit that the library evoked a certain amount of affable nostalgia. It reminded him of late nights in the reading room at Stanford, a greasy pizza box in front of him and textbooks spread out all around as he crammed for some test or another.

More than once, during those all night study sessions, Jess would slip in with a cup of coffee, providing a much needed caffeine boost and, on one very memorable occasion, a quickie in the American Literature section.

Slipping another card into the machine, bringing another week's worth of local news articles up on the projector, Sam smiled as he remembered the grin Jess had tossed over her shoulder when she'd left the library that night.

She had always been beautiful, but that night, cheeks flushed pink, hips swaying gently as she walked away, she'd been nothing short of breathtaking.

It still hurt to think of her more often than not, and he still missed her so much. So much. But as the time had slipped by, he had discovered a cache of precious memories that were free of the darkness and horror that haunted his everyday existence. He clung to those memories tightly; they were well worth the accompanying heartache.

Another article on the screen caught his attention and he jotted the location and date down next to the others he had been keeping track of.

Not too long ago, when they had been passing through California on their way to another job, he had slipped away to visit Jess's grave, stopping to buy a brightly-colored bouquet on the way.

Standing on the perfectly landscaped grass and staring down at the marble headstone, he had found himself wondering what he was doing at this lonely, joyless place. Jess didn't lie under the earth with her bones, she lived in his heart. Always with him.

In that moment, he had known that he would never come back to the cemetery.

Turning, the bouquet still clutched in his hand, Sam had gone to the bay where he and Jess had shared their first kiss, and sent the flowers, one by one, into the ocean. Each blossom drifting into the sunrise had been accompanied by a bittersweet memory.

Now, sensing someone behind him, Sam looked up into his older brother's face.

A pencil behind his ear and a smirk flitting across his lips, Dean tucked a scrap of paper into his shirt pocket. "What have we got?" he asked, nodding toward the projector.

Sam cleared his throat. "I found some articles from the local papers here, a few from Wabasha, and a handful of other towns too."

"And?"

"You were right, there's definitely a pattern." Sam slid the notebook across the table, toward where his brother was leaning. "Every seven years there's a rash of missing persons. They're always female and they're almost always expecting."

Dean's smile widened and Sam pushed on quickly, not giving his brother the chance to bask in the fact that he had been right.

"The police have never managed to come up with any suspects, but in the last fifty years nearly two dozen women have disappeared."

"Let me guess, all along the same stretch of river?"

"Yeah, looks like."

Tugging a folded paper from the back pocket of his jeans, Dean dropped into the chair next to Sam, pulling the notebook a little closer to himself.

"Well, if we know where it's been in the past, maybe we can see where it's headed next."

As his brother smoothed the sheet of paper, Sam could see that it was a photocopied roadmap, the Mississippi river meticulously highlighted in pink.

Dean had actually done some research on this? Was hell freezing over? He tried to cover his surprise with a cough.

And failed.

Meeting Sam's gaze over the printed roads and towns, Dean pressed his lips together and cocked his head to the side. "Give me a little credit, will you, Sammy? I'm a professional here."

Sam's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "So that's not the library assistant's phone number in your shirt pocket?"

Pulling the pencil from behind his ear and leaning over the map, his brother didn't quite manage to hide his self-satisfied grin. "What can I say? I'm a multi-tasker."

"You're something all right."

"And don't you forget it."

Glancing between the notebook and the map, Dean made several marks on the photocopy, circling towns along the highlighted river and scribbling dates next to them. After a moment he paused, chewing on the pencil eraser thoughtfully. "Check this out."

Sam leaned across the table, taking a moment to study the map. "It's moving down river." He frowned as he read the dates next to the circled towns. "And it's moving faster."

Nodding, Dean continued to mark the pattern of missing persons. "Looks like it stops for a snack every two or three towns," he said and circled a final town on the map with a flourish. "And I'll bet this is the next stop on the buffet line."

"Any ideas what it could be?"

"Angry spirit? Water demon? Maybe something like the White River Monster in Arkansas?" Dean shrugged. "Whatever it is, we need to find it and stop it before anyone else gets hurt."

"Right."

Taking a moment to look away from the white print on the blue screen of the microfiche projector, Sam rubbed at the growing ache behind his eyes. A small twinge coursed though him and he recognized the beginnings of the nausea that sometimes accompanied these headaches.

"Sam? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Dean pressed his lips together. "You don't look fine."

"I said I'm fine."

Shooting him a sidelong glance, Dean refolded the map and got to his feet with an exaggerated groan. "Whatever. I'm starving, let's get out of here."

"What about the job?"

"We already have an idea where it's heading. We can figure out what it is after we get something to eat."

"Dean . . ."

Dean tugged the card out of the microfiche machine and tossed it back into the file box, severing Sam's protestations.

"It's just a cheeseburger and a slice of pie, Sammy. I promise you the mamma-nabbing aqua-beastie will still be here in an half an hour."

o()o

As it turned out, four aspirin and a tenderloin sandwich was the miracle cure for a nasty headache.

Back at the motel, feeling much better, Sam scoured the internet for something that resembled what they were looking for.

The river had seen more than its fair share of tragedies, dozens of drownings, several suicides and even a handful of murders, but nothing that fit the bill of what was happening to the pregnant women in these tiny riverside towns.

Across the room, sprawled over a shabby looking, chair, Dean tapped his foot in time with the song playing on the ancient clock radio as he flipped through one of the many references they had inherited from their father. Every so often, his brother would hum a bar or two of the chorus before turning the page.

Rubbing at his eyes, easing the sting that could only be caused by staring at a computer screen for too long, Sam let his head fall back against the chair he was sitting in. "Any luck?"

"Creole gatormen, grindylows, rusalka, giant squids," Dean slapped the pages with an open hand, "it all adds up to a whole lot of nothing. What about you?"

"There's no evidence that it's the spirit of someone that died in or by the river."

Dean nodded. "That's no surprise, if it were a spirit, it would be haunting just one town, wherever it had died. You found, what, four or five that people were turning up missing in."

"Seven," Sam corrected. "One for each year the thing's inactive."

Snapping his fingers, Dean pointed in his direction "Seven. That's what I meant," he said, turning back to the book that was balanced on his lap.

"Yeah, right."

"What? It was."

Rolling his eyes skyward, Sam ignored his brother's protestations and clicked another link on the laptop. A black screen popped up with skulls flanking the top and bottom of the page. Jagged red letters boldly declared that Sam had reached the most terrifying website on the internet.

This made number nine.

With an exasperated groan, he closed the webpage before it'd had a chance to load completely and moved on to the next site.

"Click on the wrong porn pop-up there, Sammy?" Dean jibed, not looking up from what he was reading.

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but the website that had appeared on the laptop caught his attention.

Instead of the normal spooktacular wannabe sites he had been sifting through for the past two hours, this one looked, well, almost professional. Leaning forward, Sam felt a smile tugging at his lips as he read.

"I think I've got something."

Dean straightened, nudging the clock radio with his toe until it shut off. "Hit me."

"Ever hear of a Dracae?"

Dean furrowed a brow. "Hold that thought," he said, flipping backwards through the book that was balanced on his lap.

"Yeah, okay. Dracae," he said. "This says they usually inhabit lakes and rivers; kind of a no-brainer there."

The more Sam read the more certain he became that this was what they were dealing with.

"Well, listen to this," he said, "they like to entice women near the water with the image of a gold ring or cup. When the woman gets close enough to the edge, the Dracae grabs her and drags her under. She's never heard from again."

"Great." Dean shut the book, tossing it aside with a relieved-sounding sigh. "So how do we kill it?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet."

"Well put those Supergeek powers of yours to good use already, will you?"

Skimming to the end of the page, Sam swore quietly. "This doesn't say anything about getting rid of them; it just talks about what they do."

His brother stretched over the arm of the chair to reach for another book and Sam caught a glimpse of the familiar leather cover of their dad's journal.

Dean turned the worn pages and after a moment, gave a triumphant grunt, turning the book so Sam could see it.

"You'd think we'd learn to check here first," he said, tapping the entry. "Looks like Dad had run into these things before. This says the only way to kill them is with iron."

Sam nodded. "Makes sense. Iron repels all kinds of unnatural things."

"And what a coincidence," Dean said, corners of his mouth turning upward. "I just so happen to have some shotgun shells chock full of wrought iron in the car."

"Really? Who would have thought?" Sam deadpanned, and then smiled at his big brother's amused chuckle.

Dean closed the journal with a satisfying snap. "We'll leave first thing in the morning, beat it to the next town, blow its head off and still be home in time for dinner."

o()o


	3. Chapter 3

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Thanks to Kizume A.W. for the beta! While Kiz is nothing short of phenomenal, I'm also looking for a Supernatural saavy someone to beta (to help take the pressure off of her) Up for the job? Drop me a line! I'd be ever so grateful!_

o(3)o

The diner was little more than a hole in the wall with hand lettered signs and booths that were almost as greasy as the food.

In addition to the normal pancakes, waffles and scrambled eggs, the breakfast menu boasted more colorful local dishes. The cook's specials included Train wrecks, Pot Slop and Joey's Infamous Gut-Buster. It just went to show that you really could slather gravy on just about anything.

In addition to a pot of coffee strong enough to eat through the cup, a basket holding two complimentary muffins sat between them.

Sam was on his second up of coffee already, the caffeine taking the edge off of another night of fitful sleep. He consoled himself with the fact that in the three hours of sleep he had gotten, he'd only had one nightmare. It was a vast improvement over the three and four a night he had been having.

Dean picked a muffin up, eyeing it warily."I think we've been using the wrong weapons this whole time, Sammy," he said. "You could crack someone's skull with one of these.

Sam glanced up from the menu and chuckled. "And then eat the evidence."

"Deadly and delicious," Dean agreed, taking a bite.

Exchanging his menu for a battered road map, Sam uncapped a pen, searching for the quickest route to their destination. "I-90 will take us out of town, and after that it looks like US-52 is our best bet."

"How far?" Dean asked through his mouthful of muffin.

"About fifty miles."

"Barely worth the tank of gas."

A waitress sidled up to the table, a pretty girl with a red ponytail spilling over her shoulder and a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. "What can I get you guys?"

"Short stack and two eggs, over easy," said Sam.

Dean swallowed his mouthful of muffin and grinned up at the waitress. "I think I'll give old Joey's Gut-Buster a try."

"Not if I'm going to be stuck in the car with you for the rest of the day," Sam countered, scowling.

His brother arched an eyebrow in his direction and then folded his menu, setting it aside. "Anyway you can get them to put onions in that too, sweetheart?"

The waitress wrinkled her nose as she jotted their orders. "It has onions already."

Dean upped the wattage of his grin. "Well, have him toss some more in there for me, okay?"

Sam bit back a groan as the waitress looked up, meeting Dean's eyes and returning his smile. "Whatever you say, sugar."

He watched the waitress saunter away before tossing a glare in his brother's direction. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

Dean took a drink of his coffee, grimacing into the cup before smiling at him over the rim. "Come on, Sammy, where's your sense of adventure?"

"First pit-stop we make, I'm buying a bag of Doritos and I'll show you a sense of adventure."

Dean's eyes went wide. "Over my dead body," he said. "I know what those things to do to you."

Snorting, Sam poured himself another cup of coffee and made a note to buy two bags as soon as he was able.

And maybe some salsa to go with them.

o()o

This sucked.

Big-time.

The quaint brick road followed the path of the river, taking anyone who walked it past several benches, a small park with a playground, and a riverfront bar and grill. Across the road, several large slabs of rock had been painstakingly arranged on the river's shore to provide a place to fish or simply to sit and watch the world go by.

Behind an ever-changing veil of clouds, the moon reflected fleeting silver spikes along the fathomless black of the river.

It might have made for a pleasant, scenic drive, if everything hadn't been under a solid two feet of water.

Jeans soaked to the knee, Dean glanced longingly back toward the small patch of dry land where they had parked the Impala. "This is freaking ridiculous."

Beside him, Sam deftly slipped two cartridges full of wrought iron into the sawed-off he was carrying. "I guess the papers weren't lying about the river levels being up."

"Whose genius idea was this, anyway?"

His little brother shot him a sidelong glance. "Yours."

"No way man," Dean protested, gesturing with the butt of his own weapon. "I only have good ideas. And this? This redefines 'crappy idea'."

"Leave first thing in the morning, beat it to the next town, blow its head off and still be home in time for dinner." Sam said, the corner of his mouth turning up. "Sound familiar?"

"Well I didn't think the next town would be freaking Atlantis." Dean paused, "Oh, and by the way Sam?"

"What?"

"Shut up."

Sam snorted, shaking his head. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

A fat drop of rain landed on his cheek and Dean scowled up at the swollen sky. "You've got to be kidding me."

Tucking his gun under his arm, Sam zipped up his jacket, frowning when a burst of lightening split the sky. "We'd better get this done fast."

Dean's reply was lost in a clap of thunder that was loud enough to rattle his bones. On the patented Dean Winchester crap scale: crappy, crappier, crappiest, this was quickly approaching über-crap.

Another brilliant blaze of lighting illuminated a flitter of movement across the road, and Dean saw a figure crouched on one of the slabs of rock there. It was a girl, gazing into the river. Her head was bowed, fingers making ripples in the tide that lapped at her feet.

Below her fingertips, Dean could just make out a shimmer of gold.

"Hey," he shouted. "Get away from there!"

The girl whipped around to face him. Blue eyes, wide and startled, met his and her blond hair fluttered in the warm breeze that blew. Her hand went to her belly as she stood, cradling the unborn baby there.

Next to her feet, the water began to churn, bubbling like a pot set to boil.

He was bolting toward the girl before he'd made any conscious decision to move, leaving his brother behind, and moving as fast as the water sucking at his legs would allow.

"I said, get away from there!"

He collided with the girl at full speed, shoving her out of the way as a pair of slime-coated hands shot out of the water, muck oozing between webbed fingers. Dean tumbled to his knees on the rock slab where the girl had stood just moments ago and he heard the stomach-dropping sound of his shotgun skittering across the stone and splashing into depths of the Mississippi.

"Are you okay?" he asked. The girl didn't respond and he raised his voice to an attention grabbing bellow. "Hey! Are you okay?"

He had just enough time to register her hesitant nod, to ensure sure she was safe, before the Dracae captured his wrist in an iron grip, yanking him headlong into the river.

The Mississippi was still stubbornly clinging to her winter chill and the cold sliced through Dean like a knife. It would have taken his breath away, if he'd had any breath to spare.

The creature stared at him, it's bulbous, golden eyes glimmering in the murky water and Dean scowled back, struggling against its powerful hold.

_Son of a bitch._

One of his boots connected with something solid and the creature gnashed at him, revealing a double set of teeth, needle sharp and stained with black slime. It lunged at him mouth opened wide and Dean met it with a vicious head-butt.

The blow was enough to allow him the opportunity to yank one hand free and he had the satisfaction of socking that ugly mother right between the eyes.

_Chew on that, you slimy bastard._

The dracae bared its teeth, its claws digging painfully into the flesh of Dean's arm and releasing thin ribbons of red into the muddy water. Its reciprocal blow was enough to make his head snap backward and sent another ribbon of blood spiraling toward the surface. The dracae began to swim downward, dragging him along with it.

_Oh, hell no._

Dean lashed out with renewed force, kicking furiously and trying to wrench himself free. There was no way he was going to die in this stupid river at the hands of some giant, evil-ass sea monkey.

A beam of light sliced through the murky darkness, illuminating a hand grappling in the water, reaching for him.

Sam.

Lungs burning, Dean redoubled his efforts to get away, using precious oxygen as he tried to reach the faint glimmer of his brother's flashlight. A strong hand closed around his wrist and Dean clung to it, kicking ferociously as Sam tried to haul him out of the water.

The dracae tightened its grip, unable to drag him further down, and refusing to let go and Dean found himself caught in an underwater tug of war. Pulled painfully in two directions, he felt his grip on Sam's wrist begin to give and clenched at his brother's hand.

_Don't you dare let me go, Sammy._

In the movies, the handsome devil of a hero always got a chance to get away and get that one direly-needed breath in before ducking back under the water and kicking some major ass.

But this wasn't the movies and he was running out of time.

_Can't breathe, can't…breathe._

Panic twisted his insides and Dean struggled against both pairs of hands that held him, the hot stale breath pooling like syrup in his lungs.His chest was on fire now and sparkles of light were beginning to edge his field of vision.

Concious thought began to dissolve into blind instinct. Shove, punch, kick, fight. Get away.

_Get to the surface._

But he couldn't get free and he couldn't hold on any longer.

His panic was beginning to fade into a dreamy sort of peace and Dean fought against the feeling, refusing to give in. No way in hell he was going to go gently into that good freaking night.

Rejecting the sensation hurt, like something fundamental was being ripped away from him and Dean clung to the pain, using it as fuel to keep fighting.

_Can't . . . breathe. Can't . . ._

At last, he exhaled a burst of bubbles and sucked in a desperately needed breath, only to fill his lungs with water. The light that had been edging his vision exploded into brilliance and his struggles ceased.

The hand that had been clutching at Sam's sleeve went limp.

o()o


	4. Chapter 4

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I hope everyone out there in PCLand had a good weekend. I spent most of mine on the back of a motocycle. :)  
**Nifty Fact of the Day: **The very last scene of this chapter has got to be the most rewritten scene in history. I can't believe how many times I scrapped it only to decide I hated the new one even more.  
_

o(4)o

He was four years old, trying to make himself as small as possible in the brightly lit room.

His mommy was in the bed; her hair messed up and a big smile on her face. In her arms, she held a pale blue bundle. His daddy stood next to her, his smile just as big.

He was hiding under a shelf with wheels, scraped knees drawn up to his chin, trying hard not to cry. Smiling or not, he didn't like the way his mommy looked in that bed and he didn't like the thing taped to her hand. It looked like it hurt.

His daddy tilted his head to one side, eyes sparkling, and he knew he'd been spotted. Mommy looked his way too, brushing her hair behind her ear.

"Come meet your brother, honey."

He shook his head. He didn't want a brother; he just wanted things to be the way they had always been: him and Mommy and Daddy.

"Can't we just leave him here and go home?"

His daddy chuckled; gently taking the bundle Mommy had been holding and cradling it in his arms. Kneeling in front of him, Daddy moved the blanket to reveal a wrinkled pink thing in a little blue hat.

"Dean, this is Sammy."

Previous fears forgotten, he wrinkled his nose as he looked down at the tiny thing bundled in blue. "He's pretty ugly."

Daddy laughed, pressing a kiss against the top of his head. "He looks a lot like you did."

"Does not," he protested. "Mommy said I was a cute baby."

Reaching down to poke at the ugly thing, he was stunned when a miniature hand reached out of the blanket, curling around his finger and squeezing.

"You're his big brother, Dean," Daddy said. "It's your job to look out for him."

Looking down at his new baby brother, he had to fight against the smile tugging at his lips.

"Hi Sammy."

He was going to be the best big brother ever.

o()o

He was six years old, outside in the grass, the summer sun warm on his shoulders.

He and Sammy had spent the entire morning exploring the field outside of Uncle Bobby's and playing with the older man's new puppy while Daddy had shot cans and bottles off of a nearby fence, the sound echoing through the still afternoon.

After a while, Sammy had curled up in the shade of a large oak tree and fallen asleep. Now, Dean was content to sit beside him, drawing pictures with his finger in the dirt.

A warm hand settled on his shoulder and he looked up from his picture, into his father's careworn face. "Hi Daddy!"

His dad smiled down at him, the gun he had been using slung casually over one broad shoulder. "Hey, dude. Is Sammy sleeping?"

He nodded, beaming. "I didn't wake him up this time I remembered what you said."

"Good job, buddy," his dad said, chuckling quietly. "Did you guys have a good time today?"

"We caught nine grasshoppers, Daddy. One even spit on me and then Rumsfield ate it!" Dean mimed the puppy crunching on a hapless grasshopper with his hands, grinning at his father's louder laugh.

"Sounds like you three are pretty good hunters."

Dean puffed out his small chest with pride. "The best."

For a moment his daddy had looked sad, like when he had said that Mommy couldn't come home anymore, but then he smiled again, ruffling Dean's hair.

"Come on, buddy, I have something I want you to try."

o()o

He was ten years old, sitting at a wobbly table in another motel room, nicer than the last, but not as nice as the one before that, with a greasy rag in his hands and a gun in pieces before him.

Across the room, Sammy was sprawled in bed, head buried under his pillow as he slept. There was some ancient monster movie on the T.V. but Dean only gave it half of his attention, focusing instead on the weapon he was cleaning.

It was their third night in alone; living on Spaghetti-O's and ham sandwiches and waiting for their dad to come back, wherever he may be.

He was supposed to be back tonight, and Dean was starting to worry.

The backup plan had been drilled into his head, call Pastor Jim, pack his and Sammy's things and wait. He had picked up the phone a dozen times over the course of the night, dialing half of the preacher's number before hanging up again.

Calling Pastor Jim felt too much like giving up.

The motel door opened and his dad came in, shaking the rain from his hair.

Dean got to his feet, a heavy weight lifting from his chest. He wanted to run across the room, throw himself into his father's arms and bury his face in his dad's stubbly neck like Sammy did, but he was too old for that now.

"Hi dad," he said quietly instead.

"Hey dude." Dad said, sinking into the chair beside him, scrubbing a hand over his face. "It's late. You should be in bed."

Dean tilted his head toward the dismantled gun that he'd been in the middle of cleaning. "Got to finish this first."

A ghost of a smile touched his dad's lips as he looked down at his folded hands. "I'll finish it up, you go brush your teeth and get ready for bed."

Dean followed his dad's gaze looking at the older man's bloodied knuckles and noting the slight tremble in his fingers.

"Yes sir."

"Get to it then."

He took two steps away before turning and walking back to the table. He still wanted a hug more than anything else in the world, but settled for placing a hand on his dad's shoulder. The smile on his lips felt cold, but he left it there anyway.

"It'll be okay, Dad."

o()o

He was thirteen years old, a gun clutched in his hand to tightly his knuckles were white, staying as close to his father as humanly possible without actually crawling into the other man's back pocket.

The house they crept through was dark and decrepit, full of unseen eyes in the shadows, full of evil things that killed kids, some even younger than Sammy.

It was his first hunt.

The night had been warm and humid, but in this place, Dean's too-quick breaths came out in white plumes.

"Stay close to me Dean, just like we practiced at the barn. Understand?" His father's voice was low and firm, helping to quiet Dean's ragged nerves.

"Yes--" he heard the tremor in his voice and swallowed hard against it. "Yes sir."

His dad glanced back at him, a small smile curving his mouth. "After this, what do you say we pick up Sammy and go out for pizza? Maybe hit the arcade?"

Despite the fear gnawing at his guts, Dean managed to return his father's smile. Pizza and video games were a rare treat, saved for special occasions only. "Yeah! I mean, yes sir."

"Let's get to work, then," his dad said sobering. "Clear the doorways, quick and low."

Dean nodded, cocking the shotgun, calmed by his father's steadying presence.

Halfway up the rotted stairs, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, gooseflesh sweeping across his skin. He whirled around just as the ghost shimmered into existence before him, eyes wide, mouth gaping as it shrieked.

Dean fell back a step, clumsy in the sudden onslaught of adrenaline that had flooded his veins.

"Shoot it, Dean!" his father yelled from the bottom of the stairwell.

His first shot missed by a mile, blowing a chunk of ancient plaster out of the wall, and ghost the lunged, barely missing him as Dean leapt out of the way.

"Aim where it's going, not where it's been!" his father's advice was almost lost in the spirit's angry wails.

Raising the shotgun again, he pulled the trigger. The recoil from the gun sent him stumbling backward, crashing into the already cracked wall, and he watched, amazed, as the spirit vanished in a spray of rock salt.

Its final screech echoed off of the crumbling walls and Dean's legs turned to jelly. He sank down on the ancient stairwell, trembling as much from fear as from exhilaration.

He heard his father's praise from the bottom of the stairs and sucked in a deep breath, the corners of his mouth turning up.

This was the coolest job ever.

o()o

He had just turned nineteen and sat in another crappy motel room, listening as his brother and father shouted at each other, blaming the other for everything but the kitchen sink.

He had known it was coming; it had been brewing in the emergency room like some poisoned concoction. The tightness of his father's jaw, the hard shine in Sam's eyes, they had barely made it back to the Impala before the yelling had begun.

And they hadn't stopped since.

His arm was driving him crazy and he flexed his fingers around the newly-applied plaster cast, hoping the ache the movement caused would distract him from the itch. The ER doctor had given him pain pills, but Dean knew that he wouldn't be taking them. They would get added to the first-aid kit, saved for those 'just in case' scenarios that Dean prayed he would never encounter.

"You should have been watching your brother's back!" his dad roared, jamming a finger into Sam's chest. "You could have gotten him killed."

"Me?" Sam shot back, slapping the offending finger away. "Where the hell were you? Dean needed you and you were nowhere to be found!"

He wanted to tell them both to stop, that he was fine, that it was no big deal, but he knew from experience that it would do just about as much good a screen door in a submarine. So he remained silent, torn in two as he watched them fight.

"If you actually gave a damn about your brother you would have been looking out for him instead of trying to pump me for information you didn't need."

"If I had known what we were up against, Dean never would have gotten hurt in the first place!"

The beer he had been sipping on suddenly tasted like crap and the motel room seemed a lot smaller than it had been just a moment ago. Everything was too close and too loud. A sick pit in his gut opened up and for a moment, Dean thought he was going to puke.

Why did they always have to do this? And why did they always use him as leverage?

"Look at him," John bellowed. "Look at what your selfish recklessness did to your brother."

Dean's bottle of beer exploded against the wall in a shower of glass before he was even aware of it leaving his hand. The sudden silence that filled the motel room was thick enough to choke on and two sets of startled eyes turned his way.

"Dean?"

The words clogged in his throat and he pushed by them both, bursting out of the motel and into the cold night air.

He was four blocks away before he realized that he was running.

o()o

He was twenty two years old and Sam had just walked out of the motel room, taking all of his meager belongings, and slamming the door firmly behind him.

His dad was still as a statue, but Dean could sense the anger thrumming through the older man like a live wire.

All he could do was stare at the empty bed where his brother would no longer be. Sammy was gone; his brother had packed up and left him behind without a second thought. He hadn't even looked back

The thought was like a brick in the chest, crashing through and leaving a giant hole in its wake.

He was alone.

o()o

He was twenty six years old, sprawled on the floor, looking up at his younger brother with begrudging pride.

Even after four years of being gone, Sammy still had his edge. That was good, that meant he could handle himself if the need ever arose.

Not that Dean would ever let that happen. Even if Sam didn't know it, his big brother was still looking out for him. He wasn't about to abandon his family even though it seemed that they were hell-bent on abandoning him. The thought was bitter as bile and he choked it back, replacing it with a cocky grin.

"Get off me."

His brother got to his feet, hauling Dean up as well. "Dean, what the hell are you doing here?"

He wanted to tell his brother the truth, that he had come back from New Orleans to find the motel room where he was supposed to meet their father empty. Dad had left, not even bothering with a note. His departure had left Dean suffocating in the silence and loneliness that had become his world for the past three weeks.

"Well, I was looking for a beer."

o()o

He was twenty seven years old, surrounded by the most beautiful, brilliant light he had ever seen.

He could feel it burning away the fear and hurt that had been a part him for so long, putting him at peace, trying to make him rest. And he was strangely comfortable with it.

In the distance, he could hear the gentle rush of the ocean, the ebb and flow in perfect time with his heartbeat. Barefoot, he walked toward the sound, feeling the ground under him turn into warm sand.

Reaching the shore he stared out at water, digging his toes into the damp grit there and turning his face into the flawless blue sky. Eyes closed, he savored the warmth on his skin, golden and tranquil.

The tang of saltwater was strong, but not unpleasant, stinging his eyes and nose. Beyond that there was the smell of something else. Complex and subtle, the scent teased his memory, but he couldn't place it. After a moment he gave up trying, going back to enjoying the sun on his face.

Had the world always been this perfect? How could he not have known?

A flicker of darkness made him open his eyes, frowning up into the previously pristine sky. The peculiar smell had intensified, no longer subtle, and the hunter in Dean identified it effortlessly.

Sulfur.

Something wasn't right.

As if his thought had given form to deed, storm clouds crowded the sky, dark and heavy with rain, and in their depths Dean could see decomposing faces and the tumbled, tangled silhouettes of the brutally murdered

The ocean had turned the color of pewter, whitecaps forming, churning with the sudden cold wind that blew. Instead of the soothing rush of the tide; he heard the whispers of the dead, beckoning him to join them in their rotted respite.

A tiny drop of black dripped from the sky onto his hand like tar and another drop landed in the sand by his feet. Dean jumped backward, away from the ooze, but it was raining down around him now. The heavy liquid pattered as it landed on the sand.

He watched, heart racing against his ribs, as the drops on the ground began to spread out, soaking into the sand like thick blood, edging toward him. Backing away from the growing blackness, he swore and tried to run in the opposite direction, only to find himself facing the same scene he had just turned away from.

He couldn't get away.

And he couldn't feel his fingers.

Fear, cold and greasy shot through him and he looked at his hand, seeing the same oily blackness that was in the sand leaching along his skin, oozing its way up his arm. More drops landed on him, spattering and reaching toward the next drop, consuming him.

He wanted to call out, but he couldn't force the breath he was holding out of his lungs. The blackness was everywhere, filling his nose and mouth, gagging and blinding him.

Gasping in desperate breaths, he wheezed as he tried to exhale.

Can't breathe . . . Can't breathe . . .

The sky blazed with lightening red as blood and the clap of thunder that followed sounded like a tortured scream.

In the instant before the darkness swallowed him whole, Dean felt an icy hand clutch at his fingers.

Then there was nothing but pain.

o()o


	5. Chapter 5

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone out there in PCLand for all the wonderful feedback I've been recieving. I didn't think anyone could parallel the awesomeness of my BDS readers, but you guys have blown me away. _  
_**Nifty Fact of the Day: **Hawkeye Pierce was a doctor and the main character on the TV series M.A.S.H. _

o(5)o

A voice.

Pain.

They came to him gradually, dull and hazy. Then, like a picture being brought into focus the voice sharpened into words and the pain sharpened into full blown agony.

The need for air screamed through every cell in his body and his chest heaved of its own accord.

Can't breathe, can't breathe. 

Clenching his hands into fists, he tried gasp in desperately needed air, but his short, rapid inhalations were forced back out before they even hit his lungs, his body purging itself of the Mississippi river.

"Dean? Dean!"

Sam.

His brother's voice was raw, the fear in it slicing through the deafening rush of blood in Dean's ears. Rain pelted him, falling into his mouth and nose, and he choked on it, forcing up another wave of river water in the process.

Rough hands seized the sodden leather of his jacket, rolling him onto his side. "Come on, man. Just breathe. Breathe."

Finally a barbed-wire laced breath made it to his lungs and Dean managed to push Sam away and struggle to his hands and knees. He hunched his shoulders, coughing and sputtering until his airway was clear.

Sucking long, ragged breaths, he glanced over to where his brother was kneeling. Sam's eyes were red rimmed and swollen, full of a need for reassurance that, even now, Dean hastened to fill.

"Son . . . of a . . . bitch . . ." The explicative was broken up by wracking coughs, and his voice was little more than a croak, but his words had the desired effect: life flooded back into Sam's face.

His brother was by his side again in an instant, clutching at his jacket and thumping him on the back. Spitting, Dean straightened with a groan. "Tell me you turned that nasty mother into fish sticks."

Sliding an arm around his waist, Sam hauled him to his feet with a grunt. "It's dead."

Dean pressed a hand against the raw ache in his chest, grimacing. "And the girl?"

Sam bobbed his head. "Long gone before I even got to you."

"Good."

Sam bore his weight, half-guiding, half-dragging him away from the river. After a moment of silence, his brother chuckled unsteadily, running a hand through his dripping hair.

"You scared the hell out of me, you know that?"

After the day he'd had, Dean wouldn't have believed that anyone could have made him laugh out loud. But Sam had managed to do just that.

"Out of you?" he croaked, nudging his brother in the ribs. "Out of you?"

Sam twitched away from the elbow in his side, making Dean stumble as they slogged out of the flooded parking lot and back onto dry land.

"Watch it, man. I've had just about all the freezing cold water I can handle."

Sam huffed, but the corners of his mouth turned up every so slightly. "No doubt."

Above them, thunder rumbled quietly, and Dean shuddered at the sound, gooseflesh sweeping across his skin.

The sky blazed with lightening red as blood and the clap of thunder that followed sounded like a tortured scream.

His knees buckled and he clung to his brother to keep from collapsing into a heap on the ground. "Damn!"

Sam grappled for the sopping leather of his jacket, gripping it tightly to keep him on his feet. "You okay?" he asked, brow creased with worry.

Shaking his head to clear the image away, Dean shot the sky an apprehensive glance. Just regular clouds, just regular rain, nothing to worry about.

"Yeah, fine. Fine." He tore his gaze away from the darkened sky and sighed with relief. "Oh thank God."

Washed clean by the storm, droplets of rain beading on her black paint like precious gems, the Impala had never looked more beautiful.

Dropping into the passenger side seat with a wince, Dean let his head fall back. "Oh, baby, am I glad to see you."

After a moment, Sam slid into the car beside him, tossing him a towel from the trunk and starting the engine.

Dean buried his face in the musty towel before rubbing it over his head. It was pointless at best, he was soaked through, but the action was calming, taking his mind away from the disturbing half-memories that were gnawing at his brain.

Pausing, he examined his jacket. "Son of a bitch," he exclaimed angrily, moving to mop at the sodden leather. "I really, really hate the river."

"Just hang on, okay?" said Sam turning the heat up full blast. "The hospital's only fifteen minutes away."

Dean's head jerked up. "What? No."

"We need to get you checked out."

"I said no," he scowled, going back to trying to salvage his jacket. "All I need is a hot shower and a pepperoni pizza."

"But--" 

"And a beer," he pushed on. "God, I need a beer."

"Dean, I really think--"

"No, Sam." Rolling down the window, Dean spat, trying to clear the taste of the river from his mouth. "No hospitals."

"Dean--" Sam's face turned stubborn, jaw tightening.

"Dude, what part of 'no' aren't you getting?"

"Dean, please."

The previously obstinate tone had changed into one of pleading and Dean's head whipped around. He took in the tension in Sam's shoulders and the tremor in his hands; something wasn't right.

"Sam?"

His brother didn't answer him, staring down at his hands and icy concern washed through Dean.

Reaching across the seat, he turned off the Impala's engine and pulled the keys out of the ignition.

"Hey!"

He ignored the incensed yelp. "What the hell's going on here, Sammy?"

"Nothing." Shadows swept over Sam's face and he turned away, swallowing hard. But not before Dean caught the anguish in his little brother's eyes.

"Damnit Sam," he sighed, balling up the towel and tossing it into the back seat. "Don't make me beat it out of you. I'm too freaking tired."

"You weren't breathing, Dean!" Sam slammed a hand against the steering wheel, startling him. "Okay? When I pulled you out of the water you weren't moving and you weren't breathing."

Nonplussed, he stared at his little brother. "Come on," he scoffed. "Are you trying to tell me I was . . .?"

Nodding, Sam looked back out the window, the muscle in his jaw flexing rhythmically. 

"Well, maybe you were wrong," he reasoned. "I mean you're not exactly Hawkeye Pierce, Sammy."

Sam shook his head, "I wasn't wrong. You weren't breathing, you didn't have a pulse. You were . . . gone."

"Yikes," Dean said quietly. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"How . . ." he paused, trying to wrap his mind around what he'd just been told. "How long?"

"Ten minutes give or take." Sam's voice was low, and Dean pretended that he couldn't see the tears that were beginning to slip down his little brother's face. "You stopped moving under the water before that, though, so it might have been longer."

"Oh."

Sam snuffled quietly and blew out a breath. "Yeah. That's why . . ." he broke off, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. "I just want to make sure you're okay. All right?"

Dean remained silent, and for a moment there was nothing but the whisper of the rain against the Impala's roof.

He jumped backward, away from the ooze, but it was raining down around him now. The heavy liquid pattered as it landed on the sand.

"I'm fine, man." He covered the shudder that crawled up his spine by placing a hand on the back of his brother's neck, squeezing. "And the sooner we get the hell out of here, the better I'll be."

o()o

The water was hot enough to scald and he'd lost track of how long he'd been standing under the spray,

One hand braced against the questionably clean tile of the shower, head bowed, Dean let the water sluice over his head and his back, beating down on his aching muscles and washing away the chill that had seeped into his bones.

In his other hand, the bar of motel soap was now little more than a sliver. He had scrubbed until his skin was red; trying to wash away the stench of the Mississippi river, but the fishy odor still lingered in his nose.

The peculiar smell had intensified, no longer subtle, and the hunter in Dean identified it automatically. 

Sulfur. 

The half-memory surfaced like a rotten corpse out of water and he clenched his fists as a shudder tore through him.

A sudden burst of cool water startled him back to the here and now and he glared up at the showerhead.

"Guess that means I'm done," he muttered to himself, stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel.

He took in a deep breath of humid air and coughed, grimacing at the raw, coppery taste in the back of his throat.

"Ow."

Blackening bruises and bloody half moons marred his wrists, marking where the dracae'd had him in its powerful grip and his knuckles were split from the few shots he'd gotten in during the underwater brawl.

Rubbing the water from his body, Dean turned to look in the mirror, hoping he didn't look as beat to hell as he felt.

Steam clung to the glass, erasing his features turning the bathroom into a veiled blur. Leaning forward to wipe the mist away, Dean froze, his heart skipping a beat.

Behind his shoulder, another figure stood its reflection just as distorted as his own.

Whipping around to confront the intruder, he was met with nothing but a towel rack and nauseating orange tile. He was alone.

Mouth suddenly dry despite the humid room, Dean turned back to the mirror. The other figure was still there, silent and motionless.

"What the hell?"

He reached up to wipe at the condensation on the mirror, to obliterate the ghostly image housed within the mist. But instead of touching smooth, wet, glass, his hand made contact with the chilled fingers of another.

"Son of a bitch!"

Jerking his hand away, Dean stumbled backwards sitting down hard on the commode.

Shifting away from the spot where his fingertips had touched the mirror, the apparition leaned toward him, examining him from the other side of the looking glass.

The adrenaline charged stutter of his pulse slowed to sledgehammer heavy beats, and Dean stared back, transfixed.

"What the hell?"

"Dean?" Sam's voice came through the door, taunt with concern.

He ignored it.

Not daring to come any closer, he lobbed his towel at the mirror. It connected, clearing away the concealing fog and bringing the bathroom into focus. All signs of the ghostly figure, and the cold and forbidding elsewhere he had brushed fingertips with, were gone.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he blew out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Damn dracae must have hit him harder than he thought.

"Dean!" Loud, rapid, knocks accompanied his brother's second call and Dean could hear the rising alarm his Sam's voice.

"I'm fine," he called back. "I uh . . . I just dropped the soap."

"You dropped the soap?" Sam's tone was incredulous.

"It happens, Sam." Bending to retrieve his towel, he shot the mirror one last uneasy glance. "Is the food here yet?"

"It got here a few minutes ago. I knocked on the door, but you ignored me."

"You know I'd never ignore you."

He could almost feel his brother's eye roll from the other side of the door. "Never ignore food, you mean. I hope you saved me some hot water at least."

Securing the towel around his waist, giving the mirror one last uneasy glance, he arranged a smile on his face and opened the bathroom door.

"Sorry, Sammy, but you're definitely going to want to give the water heater some time to recover."

o()o


	6. Chapter 6

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Thanks to Kizume A.W. for the beta, her genius makes this story possible.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **Jensen Ackles originally auditioned for the part of Sam in Supernatural, once Jared Padalecki read, however, the producers called him and asked if he'd be willing to play Dean. _

o(6)o

_Finger on the trigger, a prayer on his lips, he fired the shotgun, just as his brother went still beneath the water. _

_The wrought iron round missed the dracae by a mile and his big brother by scant inches. He desperately needed to use both hands to steady the weapon to take a second shot, but that would mean letting Dean go and there was no way in hell that was going to happen._

_Holding his breath and aiming for the barely visible glimmer of the dracae's eyes, Sam pulled the trigger. This time the bullet hit its mark and the creature met its end in an eruption of bloody bubbles and slime._

_"Dean!"_

_Bracing himself against the slabs of stone, he used all his might to haul his brother out of the muddy water, stumbling under Dean's inert weight. Making a quick grab for his brother, he lost his grip, his foot slipping on the moss-covered stones and almost sending them both back into the water. _

_"It's okay. . . "he panted looping his arms under Dean's and heaving. "I've got you." _

_His brother flopped wetly against the landing, his head connecting against the stone with a stomach-turning smack. _

_Sam fell to his knees beside his brother pulling him into his lap. Dean was alarmingly still, skin ashen and lips tinged blue. The normally expressive face was slack, green eyes staring sightlessly into the swollen sky._

_Sam clutched at the leather jacket his brother was wearing wrenching Dean upright, clinging to him unwilling to believe what was happening._

_Dean's head lolled back, hands hanging limply at his sides. Silent. Unmoving._

_"No. Oh God, Dean, no. Please no." _

_Helpless, useless, Sam gently lowered his brother's body back to the stone slab, grief ripping open a hole in him that was so deep that he knew nothing could ever fill it._

_A tiny flicker of movement caught his eye and Sam watched, with equal measures of despair and hope, as Dean's corpse tilted its head slightly, a sickening mockery of the action his brother had made use of so often in life, turning it's lifeless eyes towards him.. _

_"Why Sam?" _

_The breathy words were all-too familiar, they haunted all his nightmares and guilt ridden thoughts, but this time, instead of being Jessica's soft lilt, they were whispered in his brother's voice._

_"Why?"_

Sam awoke with a start, tangled in the sodden bedsheets, choking on his brother's name.

Before making any deliberate decision to move, he had stumbled out of bed and was at Dean's side, examining his sleeping brother as though the mere thought of death would stop the rhythmic rise and fall of Dean's chest; revoking the second chance he had been granted.

But his brother simply gave a brief snore from under his pile of blankets and stirred a little before settling back to sleep. He was still too pale, the purpling bruises standing out in stark relief against his skin, but he was alive.

And that was all that should have mattered.

Sam ran his fingers through his hair and then dug the heel of his hand into his eyes to clear away the afterimages of his dream.

And failed.

They pressed into him relentlessly. Water. Death. Blood. The accusation in his brother's lifeless eyes. How dismally he had failed.

His hand was halfway to Dean's shoulder before Sam caught himself, pulling it away. He wanted to shake Dean until he was awake, to see the green eyes, so like his own, open and aware and to hear his brother's voice, even if it was grousing at him.

It took all his willpower to return to his bed, and lying down quietly was a Herculean effort at best.

A quick glance at the clock showed that it was only twelve thirty. He'd been asleep for barely an hour, but could tell already that he would not be getting back anytime soon.

The notion of spending the night in silence, steeping in his failure, made Sam's stomach lurch.

Scribbling a note on the motel scratch pad, he left it where Dean would be sure to find it and slipped silently out of the motel room.

The night was warm, the rain that had been falling all day finally dissipating, and in the distance he could hear crickets and the unique hum of tree frogs. The quiet sounds did little to soothe his ragged nerves.

Jamming his hands into his pockets, Sam started walking in the general direction of the bar he had spotted on their way into town, splashing through puddles as he went. On any other day, they would both be there now, maybe playing a game of pool, maybe Dean hitting on the first pretty girl he had come across and Sam quietly enjoying a beer.

But today, there had been no beer and no celebration of another job well done. There hadn't even been snarky banter over hastily applied first aid, there had only been the reek of the Mississippi river and the knowledge that he'd almost lost his brother.

Forever.

The chill that raced up Sam's spine had nothing to do with cold. He hunched his shoulders against it and picked up his pace, as though he could outrun the images that were roiling in his mind and curdling his stomach.

Pausing on the rise of a hill, he stared down at the town's main street. A small grocery market and a bank graced either side of the one-lane road. Farther down, a theater boldly announced the showing of movie that had gone to video a month ago, and street lamps cast a watery glow over darkened shops, creating shadows in the alleyways.

At the very end of the street, a neon sign declaring that it was indeed a BAR, was his destination.

Pushing open the door to the bar, Sam was assaulted immediately by the reek of cigarette smoke and stale beer. The place was a dive, little more than a long hallway. The actual bar was on one side and booths lined the other, opening up into a small dance floor and a couple of pool tables near the back. An ancient dartboard graced the back wall, along with several hand-made posters announcing upcoming events.

Dropping onto a barstool, Sam pulled out his wallet. The bartender spotted him and made her way over.

"What can I get you, sweetie?" she asked, running a hand through her blue streaked hair.

"Whiskey, neat." Sam said, tossing a twenty on the bar.

"You got it."

Reaching out, he caught her shoulder. "Wait."

She turned back, offering him a surprisingly pretty smile and arching a pierced eyebrow.

For a moment he wavered, he knew he had a habit of reaching for alcohol in times of pressure, he knew it was a sign of weakness, and thought disparaging thoughts of himself for it. Weakness didn't make for a long career in his line of work and getting drunk wouldn't solve anything anyway. . .

"Leave the bottle."

o()o

His brother found him an hour later, slouched over an empty glass, the mostly empty bottle of whiskey next to him.

Sliding onto the barstool beside him, Dean raised an eyebrow in Sam's direction. "Got your note," he said, his voice carefully nonchalant.

Sam nodded slowly, not looking up. "Needed to get out; the motel smells like onion pizza and dead fish."

Dean chuckled quietly. "Yeah, I guess it does."

Glancing at his brother, Sam's booze-muddled brain slowly registered that Dean's hair was sticking up in wild angles and his face still showed lines from resting against the sheets.

Dean wasn't wearing his leather jacket and it made Sam uncomfortable to see him without it. It made his brother seem somehow . . . diminished. Unprotected.

"You were sleeping?" he slurred, struggling to hold his head upright.

Dean nodded, glancing around the bar; taking note of the exits just like their father had trained them to do. Sam had done the same thing upon first entering. "I woke up when I realized you were gone."

"Oh."

Sam reached to refill his glass and Dean slid the bottle out of his grasp.

"Hey!"

"How many have you had, Sammy?"

He didn't have any idea, he'd lost track around his fifth or sixth glassful. All he knew was that the buzz in his head was steadily taking over the ache in his chest dampening the searing images of his brother, silent and still, beside the river.

"What's it matter? We aren't working." Grunting his irritation, he tried to reach around Dean, grappling for his prize, but his brother was quicker, moving the bottle farther away.

"Come on, man, since when do you look for answers in a bottle of scotch?"

"This is whiskey," he announced grandly, pausing to frown into the bottom of his empty glass. "Was whiskey. But I'm not finding any answers here. Might try the tequila next."

"Sam, what the hell?"

"You died, Dean." Sam gestured unsteadily, keeping his voice quiet in case anyone was listening. "Dead."

"So? I'm not now," Dean was maddeningly composed as he spoke, the exact opposite of the chaos that was churning inside of Sam.

"But you were," he insisted. "Dead."

"Dude, I was gone for, like, ten minutes. That's not even a commercial break."

"Twelve minutes and eighteen seconds." Sam corrected, shoulders slumping. "And there was nothing I could do."

"Yeah, okay." His brother moved the whiskey closer to them both, ignoring Sam's empty glass and taking a long pull directly from the bottle. "I think it's time to get you to bed."

Searching for what he wanted to say, Sam struck the bar with his hand, frustrated. "You don't understand, Dean!"

"That's because you're not making any sense. Now, come on, it's time to go. Dean turned his head, coughing into his fist with a wince.

The raw sound sent another spike of guilt through Sam and he pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes suddenly stinging. "I didn't . . . didn't even start CPR."

"Sam--"

Lubricated by alcohol, the words were suddenly unstoppable, pouring out of him. "Dad made us take those classes and I didn't do any of it," he said. "All the lives we've saved, and when it came to my own brother all I could do was stare. What kind of person does something like that?"

Eyes squeezed shut, his confession hanging in the smoky air, Sam hunched his shoulders, waiting for his brother's reaction, waiting for Dean's face to turn hard and condemning just as it had in his dream.

Instead, a cool hand settled on the back of his neck.

"Listen up Sam," Dean said, voice low and unwavering. "And you listen good because I'm only going to say this once. Everything turned out fine, I'm fine; so instead of moping around over what could have happened, why don't you just shut up and be grateful that it didn't."

The firm words shocked Sam out of his self-pity, and he looked over at his brother, eyes wide, mouth agape. "What?"

Dean offered him an enigmatic half-smile, raising the bottle to his lips again, remaining silent.

The bartender came up to them, toweling the water off of a mug. "Can I do something for you, doll?"

Dean's smirk turned into a wide grin, his eyes lighting. "God, I hope so."

Sam had to give the girl credit; she lasted a full five seconds before dissolving into crystalline laughter. "I hate to tell you this sweetie, I really do, but you're playing for the wrong team."

Sam snorted as his brother's eyes went wide; the bartender's inference sinking in. "I guess a beer would be great then."

Watching the girl walk away, Dean put a hand to his chest. "Be still my heart," he said, a rakish grin splitting his face. "Think she'd let me watch?"

Sam snorted, finally snatching the whiskey away from his older brother and refilling his glass.

"Not a chance."

o()o


	7. Chapter 7

o()o

_**Author's Note: **So, I get the paranoid feeling that chapter 6 bombed. Bigtime. . .what happened? Am I wading into sucktitude? All of you out there in PCLand would tell me if I were right? Right?_  
_**Nifty Fact of the Day:** There are actually five cars that play the Winchester's 1967 Chevy Impala on the show. Can you imagine the look on Dean's face surrounded by five of his babies? _

o(7)o

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

The voice was too loud, accompanied by an unforgiving blast of sunlight. Groaning, Sam tried to burrow deeper into the depths of his blanket, away from the brightness.

He could feel the bedding being tugged away and muttered a curse, curling into what little darkness was left. "You're an ass," he grumbled.

Unfazed, his brother chuckled, continuing to yank at the blanket. "Maybe, but I'm an ass with coffee."

Turning onto his side with a groan, Sam sat up slowly and scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to force himself further into wakefulness. "Coffee?"

Dean nodded, shoving the Styrofoam cup into his hands. "Strong enough to dissolve the swizzle stick."

Sam took a tentative sip of the coffee, making a face at the bitter burn it imparted. "You could've at least stuck a sugar or two in there."

Mouth curving upward, Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Real men drink it black."

Huffing, Sam took another swallow. "Yeah, right," he said and squinted over at his brother, a sharper retort dying on his tongue.

Dean's face was pale and drawn, bruised looking circles under his eyes. There was a spot of color high on each cheek, sending a twinge of alarm through Sam.

"You look like crap," he blurted.

Dean scoffed, turning his head to give a thick-sounding cough. "That's because I feel like crap," he said with a wince. "Still, compared to you, Sammy I think I'm . . ."

Cutting his brother short with a vulgar gesture, Sam got to his feet, reaching out to place a hand against Dean's forehead.

"Get off me." Dean swatted his hand away with a scowl, but not before he could feel the heat radiating from his brother's skin.

"Dude, you're burning up."

"Nothing a couple of Tylenol won't cure. Anyway, I don't have time to get sick, we have work to do."

Sam straightened at the words, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "What did you find?"

"We've got a spontaneous combustion in Nebraska, several thousand fish washing up dead in Duluth." Dean coughed again, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a folded newspaper. "And my personal favorite in Indiana."

Taking the paper, Sam saw two obituaries, heavily circled, and accompanied by his brother's slanted scrawl.

"Mike Weston and Eric Mutchler," he read, "both turned up dead within days of each other both under similar 'unexplained circumstances'."

"Yeah, unexplained as in: 'whoops where did our livers go?'." Dean clarified. "I've been on the phone with the New Pekin P.D. all morning . . ."

"All morning?" Sam glanced at the bedside alarm clock. "Dean, its seven A.M," he said, rummaging through his duffel and tugging a moderately clean shirt over his head.

"I couldn't sleep." His brother shrugged dismissively. "Anyway, it turns out Mike and Eric both turned up missing a few vital organs."

Sam's already queasy stomach rolled a little at the thought. "Great,"

Dean frowned at him, taking a cautious step away. "You aren't going to puke again are you?"

"No." Sam echoed his older brother's frown. "Wait, again?"

"Yeah, again." Dean took a drink of his own coffee and gestured toward Sam with the cup. "You owe me a new pair of shoes, by the way."

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm plenty serious, and so are my shoes."

"Oh." Sam was sure he couldn't change the subject fast enough. "So," he said, clearing his throat, "You think it could be werewolves?"

Dean shot him a wry look. "Could be, there was no mention about any animal attacks though."

Brow furrowing, Sam tried to force his mind into action, but it was no good, his brain cells were still reeling from last night's onslaught of alcohol. His normally-reliable mental rolodex of unnatural creatures was out of order.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder, missing his flinch as the action sent a twinge of pain shooting through his temples.

"Don't worry about it, Sammy, we can figure it out after breakfast."

o()o

If you asked Dean, there was nothing better than small town breakfast specials. Where else could you get eggs, jalapeño peppers, hash browns, bacon and sausage all on one gravy-smothered plate?

He grinned as the waitress sat the platter down on the table in front of him. "Oh, Very nice."

The woman tossed her over-bleached hair over one shoulder. "The breakfast," she asked, batting heavily lined eyes, "or me?"

Sam snorted into his coffee. "Can't take you anywhere," he muttered.

Dean shot his little brother a withering glare before turning his attention back to the waitress. "Thanks," he said with a wink.

"Anytime, honey. If you need anything else give me a yell."

"Sure thing," Dean said, his smile still firmly in place.

Both brothers waited until she was well out of earshot before Dean gave into the full-body shudder he'd been keeping at bay. "Yikes."

Sam didn't look up from the paper he was reading, but the corners of his mouth twitched, belying his amusement. "What? She was kind of cute."

"Cute?" Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Dude, the bartender last night was cute, that Tonya girl in Virginia was cute. _She_," he nodded his head toward where the waitress stood, refilling salt shakers. "She could curdle vinegar."

"That's just rude." Sam said, but Dean noticed that his little brother was hiding a smile behind his hand.

"Doesn't make it any less true." Turning his head to cough, the breath Dean sucked in sent a sharp twinge through his chest. Clutching at his ribs he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, taking in shallow breaths until the moment had passed.

"Dean?"

"I'm fine," he answered the question before his little brother could ask it. "Why aren't you eating?"

Sam looked away, pouring himself another cup of coffee and Dean found himself struggling to remember if it was his little brother's third or fourth cup. "I'll get something on the road."

"Suit yourself. But I'm not sharing." Picking up his fork, Dean looked down at his plate and froze.

Mixed in amongst the scrambled eggs and strips of bacon were blackening gelatinous clots of blood, seeping dark crimson into the hash browns. Amongst the gray chunks of sausage, pallid maggots writhed and squirmed. His fork clattered back to the table and Dean jerked away from the macabre sight with a yelp of disgust.

Sam's head snapped up, coffee sloshing over the rim of the cup and onto the cheap Formica. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Eyes wide and stomach constricting, Dean looked down at the plate. Everything was as it should have been, right down to the last jalapeño.

"It's nothing. I . . ." A wave of nausea washed through him and he stood up so abruptly the chair toppled over behind him. Spinning on his heel, he backed away from the table. "I'll be right back."

Shoving open the door to the men's room, he stumbled to the sink and pressed a fist against his mouth, swallowing hard. The urge to puke intensified; Dean resisted it and felt semi-heroic.

Once he was certain that his stomach had settled he turned on the faucet, bending to splash handfuls water on his face.

Several splashes in, and the cool water turned frigid. Frowning as he straightened, Dean looked up, meeting his own gaze in the mirror.

Instead of the usual green of his eyes, a black gaze stared back at him, fathomless and indescribably cruel. The rush of the water turned into otherwordly whispers, telling him indiscernible secrets of the deep and dark.

"Holy shi --"

He barely had time to shield his eyes as the mirror shattered, turning his reflection into a hundred echoes of his face, each one training a ruthless, onyx, gaze back at him. Behind him, a flutter of movement slipped from shadow to shadow, shard to shard.

Dean began to shiver.

He had been chilled all morning, a not-so-swell byproduct of the fever that had spiked in the middle of the previous night. But now, as the temperature in the bathroom plummeted, the tremors wrought havoc throughout his body.

Crystals of frost began creep around the edges of the ruined mirror, spreading along the edges of the individual shards. The sinister whispers swelled, words still indistinct, but the malice in their tone clear.

Dean exhaled a white plume of breath an instant before the sudden freezing air hit his lungs like a ton of bricks.

Coughs tore through him. Each breath he tried to take in sent a spike of agony stabbing through his ribs and into his back and each time, the breath exploded out of him, leaving him light headed and dizzy.

Grabbing the sink hard enough to turn his knuckles white, Dean bowed his head and waited for the spell to pass, hiccoughing out curses in between the wracking coughs.

Finally, he was able to gasp in several ragged breaths, one hand still gripping the graying porcelain of the sink, the other clutching at the misery in his side.

He glanced up at the mirror, choking on a relieved sigh when it was only his eyes, wide and haunted, looking back at him.

"Dean?" Sam pushed the door open, his gaze going to the hand that Dean still had pressed against his ribs. "Hey, are you okay?"

Hunching over the sink, Dean managed to nod and Sam was beside him in an instant, prying Dean's hand away from his side, carefully inspecting his ribcage.

"I didn't think you hurt your ribs," his brother murmured, guilt coloring his tone. "It doesn't feel like anything's broken."

Dean stood still, allowing his brother's examination in a rare moment of patience. "They aren't busted," he said, with a wince. "It hurts differently."

"Then what's going on?"

"I don't know." It wasn't a lie, exactly. "But I think we should get out of here."

Reaching around him to shut the faucet off, Sam reached up to touch the shattered mirror, the frost already melted away into droplets of water.

Dean caught his brother's hand, heart stuttering. "Don't."

"What? Why?"

_Because it's evil. Something isn't right. _Dean shook his head against the unbidden thoughts. "Broken glass, Genius." he said instead, clearing his throat. "I don't feel like a trip to the emergency room today."

"Dean, did you --?" The rest of his brother's question was lost as Dean doubled over, trying to muffle the new bout of coughs with his sleeve, bowing under as much from the exertion as from the agony flaring through his chest.

The wet rattle seemed to echo off of every tile in the bathroom and he was dimly aware of Sam's hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, keeping him on his feet as his knees buckled.

Finally, the spell passed and he gently pushed his brother away, turning to spit into the sink with a grimace. "Yuck," he croaked, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Beside him, Sam stilled and Dean heard his brother's breathing catch.

"Dean, is that blood?"

Gaze shifting from his brother's too wide-eyes to the dingy porcelain of the sink, he saw the bright red that was oozing down the drain.

"Yeah," he said, quietly, eyes slipping closed. "Sammy, it is."

o()o


	8. Chapter 8

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone for all the kind words and the encouragement, especially concerning chapter 6. I'm glad to hear that everyone out the in PCLand is enjoying the story so far!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **_Sam's LSAT (Law School Admission Test) score was 174. The highest you can score is a 180. Way to go Sammy!

o(8)o

It was only supposed to be a fifteen minute nap.

Dean had closed his eyes for a few minutes in their motel room. Just long enough to catch a quick snooze before hitting the road to Indiana.

He had awoken somewhere else completely.

Adrenaline flooded his system, blinding him as it surged through his veins. Bolting upright in bed, he whipped his head around, trying to discern his surroundings, each sudden movement sent pain throbbing through his temples. Anything more than a shallow breath sent agony spiking through his ribs and back, an unwelcome break in the mammoth pressure in his chest.

Swallowing hard, Dean forced himself to relax, taking in quick, shallow breaths. As he coaxed air into his lungs, the pain abated and bits and pieces of his surroundings began to become clear.

The smell of disinfectant and sickness. The insipid watercolor on the wall. The thin blanket covering him from the waist down. The soft hum of distant conversation and the much closer beep of a heart monitor. The freaking needle in his freaking arm.

A hospital.

He was so going to kick Sam's ass.

It had taken him almost an hour after the episode in the diner to convince his little brother that he was fine, that he didn't need to see a doctor. When reasoning with Sam hadn't worked, he had tried cajoling and when that had failed as well; he had done what any big brother would have done.

He had threatened to throw Sam's laptop out of the Impala going eighty-five.

Apparently the warning hadn't stuck with his little brother like he thought it had.

The privacy curtain shifted and Dean tensed, formulating the most believable lie about why he had to get out of this hospital. Right. Freaking. Now.

The curtain moved aside, sending a sliver of brighter light into the dim room, and Sam slipped into the room, a Styrofoam cup and a candy bar in his hands.

The strained, weary expression he was wearing dissolved into a relieved smile as his eyes landed on Dean. "Hey, you're awake," he said. "Are you hungry, do you want something to eat? They've got a vending machine out in the lobby."

The thought of food sent an unusual pang of revulsion through Dean and he shook his head quickly. "I would like to know where the hell I am, though."

Sam pressed his lips together, suddenly very interested in the candy bar as he unwrapped it. "The holding room of the ER," he said. "The doctor got called away, something about a gunshot victim."

Dean's fingers went to his opposite hand, picking at the tape that secured the IV, wondering how difficult it would be to pull the line out. He was sure the bleeding wouldn't hinder him too much as he pummeled his younger brother.

"Want to tell me what I'm doing here, Sam? I thought we had an agreement."

"You're sick, Dean," Sam said, looking down at his hands. "I shouldn't have waited as long as I did. I should have made you go to the doctor back in Genoa."

Dean paused in tearing away the second layer of tape. "Dude, what are you talking about, back in Genoa? Where are we?"

"Itasca, Illinois," Sam said, some of the worry leaching back into his features. "About twenty miles away Chicago."

Dean arched an eyebrow, incredulous. "That's bullcrap, Sam, and you know it," he said. "I just closed my eyes fifteen minutes ago in the motel room, how the hell did we get to Chicago?"

"Dean," Sam's voice dropped, "we left Genoa almost three days ago."

Alarm shot through Dean and he sat up a little straighter. "I've been out for three damn days?"

Sam shook his head, eyes wide. "You drove most of the way here. I couldn't get you to wake up for dinner tonight and brought you in. You don't remember?"

Brow furrowed, Dean tried to pull something, anything from the last three days out of his memory. But there was nothing. Tamping down his unease at the giant blank space in his brain, he turned his attention back to peeling the tape from the back of his hand.

"Must have been sicker than I thought," he muttered, wincing as some hair came along with the strip. This was ridiculous. How many freaking layers of tape did these people need to use for one little I.V.?

"The doctor has you on some pretty hardcore antibiotics now," said Sam, nodding toward the bag full of clear liquid hanging over Dean's head. "We just have to wait until they're done then we can go."

He paused, fingers hovering over the last bit of tape. "That's it?"

"Yeah, I knew you wouldn't want to stay. I've got your prescriptions already and the doctors think we're going to see our family physician once we get back home to Milwaukee."

Dean smiled at Sam, pleased. The less attention they drew to themselves the better. "Good job, Sammy."

"It's Sam, Dean. Sam."

"Yeah, whatever."

Rolling his eyes, Sam took a drink of his coffee and then grimaced into the cup. "Ugh. This is the worst coffee I've ever had," he huffed quietly, shaking his head. "And that's really saying something considering some of the places we've been."

Dean scoffed at his brother and reached for the cup. "It can't be that bad, I'm sure you've probably got more sugar than actual coffee in there anyway."

Raising his brows at the challenge, Sam handed over the Styrofoam cup. "That's what you think."

Never one to turn down the chance to prove what a pansy his little brother was, Dean regarded the cup for a moment and then took a drink. The acrid burn hit him like a brick and it was all he could do not to spit back into the cup.

Beside him, Sam gave an amused snort. Dean forced himself to swallow the vile liquid and then saluted his younger brother with his middle finger.

"Son of a bitch," he said with an exaggerated groan, returning the cup. "You don't drink coffee like this, you cross the damn street to get away from it."

Sam bobbed his head in agreement. "No kidding. Do you want to know what the worst part is?"

"What's that?

"This is my second cup."

Dean chuckled, arching an eyebrow. "And you're still bitching about how bad it tastes?"

"I thought it was just because the first cup was black." Sam glanced into the cup, the corners of his mouth turning up. "I guess I was wrong."

"Think its evil?" Dean asked, smiling at Sam's quiet laugh. It wasn't a sound he heard often enough. "Maybe a little rock salt will do the trick?"

"Couldn't make it taste any worse."

Chuckling, Dean settled against the pillows and glanced up at the bag that hung from the I.V. pole, "Looks like we have a little bit of a wait yet."

Reaching over the bedrail, Sam pushed a button and the television mounted on the far wall came to life. "Yeah," he said, settling into an uncomfortable-looking bedside chair. "The nurse that checked on you last said at least an hour, probably closer to two."

An hour or two with nothing to do: normally the idea alone would be enough to make Dean's skin crawl. But not today. The sound of the T.V. was soothing and the room was comfortable and dim.

He let his eyes slip closed, allowing some of the exhaustion he had been staving off for the past three days . . . or the past week apparently, to take hold.

"Wake me up when we can get out of here, okay?"

o()o

Sam stared at the television without actually seeing it, another cup of vile coffee in his hands, his third.

He should have known. He should have understood how sick Dean was and made him go to the hospital.

When his brother was awake, it was easy to tell himself that Dean was fine, that this was no big deal. But now, as his brother laid in the hospital bed, still too pale, unmoving as he slept, the truth was all to clear to Sam.

He had barely had time to grab Dean in that grimy bathroom, protecting his head from smacking against the hard tile as his brother's eyes had rolled back, body going limp.

The heat radiating off of Dean's skin had been hot enough to burn.

And Sam had done nothing. Hell, he had let his brother drive them almost three hundred miles, on top of being so sick. First the drowning, then this, was he really so caught up in himself that he couldn't even see what his brother was going through? Was he really so selfish?

Running a hand through his hair, Sam heaved a sigh trying to force the treacherous thought out of his mind.

He failed.

"Hey."

The voice made him jump and he was surprised to see Dean awake and watching him.

"I thought you were sleeping."

Dean shrugged, sitting up with a wince. "Must have been that swallow of rocket fuel you gave me earlier. I probably won't sleep for a week."

The chuckle Sam tried to give came out closer to a weary sigh and Dean frowned at him. "Something on your mind, man?"

Sam shook his head, looking back up at the television, watching as some soap opera heroine smacked the living daylights out of her male counterpart.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said, reaching out to give him an affable shove. "You look like you're sucking on a lemon."

"I'm fine." The retort came out sharper than Sam had intended and he regretted it instantly. "I'm just tired," he added more gently.

Something flickered behind Dean's eyes, something that looked suspiciously like hurt. A moment later, the look was gone and his brother's customary smirk was firmly in place. "Don't know how you could be tired after drinking that coffee."

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but a harried-looking nurse, her hair swept back and secured with a pencil, pushed aside the privacy curtain. She glanced at them both, her gaze turning to one of annoyance as she saw the ball of tape that Dean had removed from his I.V.

"Come on," she said, pressing her lips together.

Dean offered her a thousand-watt grin and extended a hand. "I'll fix it," he cajoled. "Promise. Just leave me the tape."

Her face softening, the nurse reached into her pocket and lobbed a roll of tape across the room to Dean. As she did, Sam noticed the blood that was splattered on the sleeves of her scrub jacket.

"I'll be back to check on you soon," she said, giving them both a small smile and a nod before disappearing from the room.

"Hey Sam," Dean said, setting aside the tape and plucking one of the prescription bottles from the nightstand. "Do you remember that time, you couldn't have been more than eight, and you got the flu?"

Sam nodded, resisting the urge to cringe. He'd actually been nine and it had been the most miserable week and a half of his childhood life.

"You know, I knew something wasn't right. I tried to get dad to take you to the hospital."

The disclosure grabbed Sam's attention. "You never told me that."

Eyes still glued on the orange bottle in his hands, Dean shrugged a shoulder. "I never told anyone."

"Well, you must have gotten Dad to listen; I ended up in the hospital anyway."

Dean's features hardened into a look that was normally reserved for the paranormal and his grip around the bottle tightened. "He didn't listen. When you passed out in front of the soda machine the next night, he was already gone. On a hunt."

Sam felt his eyes go wide, "What? Then how did I get to the hospital?"

"I stole a car. Almost killed us both trying to drive on the freeway." Dean closed his eyes, shaking his head. "I don't think I'd ever seen the old man so mad."

Sam nodded, gaze going back to the television. "I remember the fight."

"Yeah," Dean set the bottle aside and ran a hand through his hair. "It was the only time I ever called dad by his name."

Sam looked over at his brother, jaw dropping. "You did what?" Calling their father anything but 'Sir' was unthinkable.

His amazed tone made Dean chuckle mirthlessly. "He told me I should have left well enough alone, and then I took a swing at him, right there in the hospital lobby. It took two orderlies to yank us apart."

"Dean," Sam frowned, "Why are you telling me this?"

For a moment, Dean looked like he wanted to say something, but then he looked away, face closing as whatever window of vulnerability he had been willing to offer shut.

"I'm just saying if you hotwired the Impala to get me here, I'll kick your ass."

o()o


	9. Chapter 9

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Special thanks to Amarintha and, as always, Kizume A.W. for the beta. Ten points and a virtual cookie to anyone who can name the move that Dean quotes in the second scene of this chapter. _  
_**Nifty Fact of the Day:**The bit about cannabalising another's liver is true, as is the legend of Liver-Eating Johnson.  
_**Gratuitous _Obscure Word for the Chapter:_**_ Susurrus (n). The indistinct sound of people whispering. I couldn't help using it, it's just such a wonderful word. _

o(9)o

Dean sat on the semi-clean motel bed, one leg bent and the other outstretched, surrounded by weaponry.

Sprawled on the second twin bed, Sam had finally drifted into something that resembled sleep, his arm thrown across his face. Dean kept a small part of his attention on his younger brother as he worked, a habit born out of years of practice.

On the nightstand beside him, a burger sat, untouched, accompanied by long-cold French fries that were more salt than actual potato. Except for the soft sound of Sam's breathing, the room was silent, Dean forgoing the slew of mp3s that normally accompanied his routine.

The antibiotics made him feel almost as crappy as the infection he was fighting, sluggish and queasy, like he had just been on a weeklong bender. Try as he might, he hadn't been able get into the music tonight; even Metallica had made his head ache.

Being sick sucked.

Picking up a greasy rag that might have once been blue, but had long since turned black, he took silent satisfaction in the gleam that he coaxed from the gunmetal. His weapons were his pride, second only to the Impala.

Take care of your weapons and they'll take care of you.

He could still hear his father's voice repeating the lesson. It rang as clearly in his mind now it as had when his dad was still alive and Dean himself was still a kid, sitting on a phone book so he could see over the top of the table.

The thought sent a twinge of remorse through him.

During those first terrible months after his father had died, Bobby had told him more than once that it wasn't a sin to be glad that he was alive. At the time, Dean couldn't see the truth of the words through the guilt that was eating him alive.

But over time, he found that a small part of him was grateful to be alive. Bobby had been right. He was glad, and he was miserable. More than anything, though, he missed his dad.

Pressing his lips together, Dean quashed the feeling down and focused on the task before him.

Under his expert fingers, the first gun was reduced to pieces, each part to be dutifully cleaned and oiled.

The first rumble of thunder that broke the silence was muted by distance, fading into quiet echoes and Dean looked up from his work, frowning as a blaze of lightning lit the darkness outside of the window.

"Another damn storm," he muttered to himself, slipping the freshly lubricated barrel into the slide with a gratifying click. "Just peachy."

Rain began to patter against the window pane, followed immediately by another grumble of thunder.

Sam snuffled quietly at the sound and turned onto his side unfazed by the storm outside. Dean paused for a moment, watching until he was certain his brother had settled back to sleep before turning his attention back to the gun in his hands. The kid must have been more tired than he had realized

He had the two guns cleaned and reassembled and was halfway through the third when the lights flickered once, twice, then went out completely, plunging the motel room into blackness.

"Son of a bitch."

Getting to his feet, Dean grappled for his duffel bag, stubbing his toe in the process and stringing together an oath that could have lit the darkness by itself.

Finally, rummaging through the quasi-clean clothes and the few personal belongings he owned, he closed his fingers closed around a flashlight.

Brandishing his prize with a satisfied grunt, Dean flicked the torch on and settled back onto the bed. Cradling the flashlight between his ear and shoulder, he reached for the piece he had been cleaning.

A shadow shifted at the edge of the darkness, just outside of the glow of the flashlight. Startled, Dean aimed the light where the movement had been, revealing nothing but the matted shag carpeting.

Outside, the quiet patter of the rain turned into muted whispers, words lost in the multitude of otherworldly voices vying to be heard.

Dean froze, body tensing, every instinct he had honed as a hunter firing. He didn't realize that he was holding his breath until his lungs started to burn.

In his hand, the flashlight flickered, creating disfigured shadows and turning the motel into an alien landscape.

The whispered pleas swelled, filling the room until Dean thought he would suffocate in them.

"Sam!" he hissed, voice lost in the susurrus. "Sam, wake up!"

Dean sensed the movement behind him more than he felt it, a chilled touch that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Biting back a startled curse, he spun around. The last of the failing light illuminated a pair of dark eyes staring up at him and the shadowed silhouette of a figure, hunkered at the foot of the bed.

Jerking backward, away from the thing in the dark, Dean dropped the flashlight and grappled blindly for a weapon, only to remember that they were all unloaded and lying useless on the bed.

Keeping his eyes on the thing in the darkness, he reached slowly for the Bowie that was concealed under his pillow. His fingers brushed the handle, only to have the knife wrenched away by unseen hands. He could just make out the glimmer of the blade as it slid across the carpet, well out of his grasp.

Unarmed, but ever resourceful, he considered launching a handful of the sodium-laden French fries at the creature. Salt was salt after all.

A burst of lightning turned the motel room into a whitewashed negative and the figure at the foot of the bed shimmered in the sudden light, wavering like a mirage as it unfolded: standing. A pale hand stretched toward him in the darkness.

The voices stopped and the silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate in. Tilting its head, the thing examined him for a moment and then turned slowly to look at his sleeping brother, its hand still outstretched.

Dean's hands tightened into fists, unarmed or not, if that thing took a single step toward Sammy, he would kill it. He would use his bare hands if he had to.

As quick as the thought formed in his mind, the thing whipped back around to face him, and Dean recoiled, rethinking his dismissal of the fries as a weapon.

The motel lights flickered back on and then it was only Sam and himself in the motel room.

On the bed, his discarded flashlight flared to life, burning too bright for an instant before the bulb exploded, the sound as loud as any gunshot.

Sam bolted upright at the noise. "What the hell was that?"

Chest heaving, cold sweat trickling down his back, Dean scanned the room, searching for some sign of the figure that had been there just moments ago. And found nothing. He was losing his goddamn mind.

"Dean?"

Sucking in a breath, Dean willed his heart out of his throat and snatched his knife from where it had embedded itself in the floorboard. "I tripped over your gargantuan shoes, Sammy. Go back to sleep."

Managing a sleepy huff, Sam flopped back against the bed. "S'Sam," he grumbled through a yawn. A moment later, his breathing was slow and even once again.

Dean resisted the urge to check for monsters under the bed. He fought the inclination for almost a minute before dropping to his knees and lifting the motel comforter to reveal the space between the bed and the floor.

The shag carpeting was clotted with dust balls, but devoid of any ghostly figure. Everything was it should be.

Except for him.

Closing his eyes as he sat back on the mattress, Dean reassembled the gun he had been in the middle of cleaning as quickly as his shaking hands would allow.

The faster he had them together and loaded the better he would feel.

o()o

There was something about the smell of a coffee shop first thing in the morning.

The sweet sugary smell of fresh-baked doughnuts mixed with the rich aroma of brewing coffee, Sam had always loved it. Early morning coffee runs for his father and Dean had been a task that was never met with any complaint, probably the only task he had never complained about.

Even at Stanford, he would wake with the dawn, pressing a kiss against Jess's forehead and slipping out of the dorm to walk down to the corner café.

He had left Dean in the motel room, forced into sleep by the medications the doctor had prescribed, and made his way downtown to the coffee shop he had spied on their way into town.

Now, as he walked away from the café, a sack of warm pastries and two cups of fresh coffee in his hands, Sam turned his face to the rising sun, smiling.

The ancient woman who had filled his order had lived in the town her entire life and had been more than willing to talk to him about the recent murders. Mrs. Bennett was just shy of her eighty-ninth birthday and a better reference than anything Sam could have found in a library.

It was a fact that nosy little old ladies could wheedle information out of the tightest lipped official and could probably out-espionage James Bond himself.

Turning the corner and walking up to the motel, Sam could see that the blinds to his room were open, revealing Dean hunched over the table, a book open in front of him. His brother's brow was furrowed as he flipped through the pages.

Sam walked in the door and Dean jumped, slamming the book shut and dropping it on the floor. "Where the hell were you?" he growled.

Sam held up the coffee in response, eyeing his big brother curiously. "What were you looking up?"

For a moment, Dean looked panicked, eyes showing white all around. Then he blinked, the startled expression melting into a familiar smirk. "Porn."

Sam couldn't help the flabbergasted laugh that escaped him. "Porn," he said, eyebrows shooting upward. "In Dad's books?"

"Hey, some of those wood prints are freaking hot, dude." Dean tried, not quite surreptitiously, to nudge the book further under the chair.

"Yeah, sure." Sam offered his brother the bag of doughnuts, letting the subject drop.

Dean took the bag, "What have we got?"

"Cannibalism."

His brother arched an eyebrow, looking down at the paper sack. "Hope its glazed cannibalism at least."

Sam rolled his eyes heavenward, "I'm talking about the job."

"Those kids?"

"Yeah. I ran into a couple of residents at the coffee-shop."

"Hitting on the grannies again, Sammy?" Dean interjected, grinning. He stretched to retrieve the orange prescription bottles on the other side of the table. "What is it with you and the elderly?"

Ignoring the jibe, Sam took a drink of his coffee before continuing. "The medical examiner found Mike and Eric to be intact, all their organs accounted for except for the livers, both of which were found in chunks."

Dean paled, his grin faltering. "Dude."

Sam fought back a glimmer of amusement. It wasn't often he got the chance to gross out his older brother and he had to enjoy it while he could. "The pieces that were left all had tooth marks, like they had been chewed on."

"Something ate their livers?"

"That's what it looks like."

The corners of Dean's mouth turned up. "Think they ate it with some Fava beans?" he said, drawing out the words into a creepy drawl.

"What?"

"Never mind." said Dean. He popped the top off of all of the bottles and plucked out a pill from each, cupping them in his hand. "So what are we looking at, something like another wendigo?"

Sam shook his head. "These guys were killed in their homes; they weren't anywhere near the woods or anyplace secluded in nature."

"A curse, then? Or a ghost?"

"I'm thinking ghost. There are a lot of local stories about raids on Native Americans back in the day, entire villages turning up murdered, stuff like that."

"Nothing says vengeful spirit like a slaughter." Dean tossed the pills back and chased them with a long swallow of coffee. "So, why the livers?"

"Legend says that eating someone's liver is the ultimate act of power over that person."

Dean scoffed. "Because tying them down and hacking out their vital organs isn't sending a strong enough message?"

"It's more common than you think. Remember Liver-eating Johnson during the civil war?"

"No."

"He waged a one-man war on the Crow in Montana and Wyoming for almost twenty years after his wife was killed," Sam said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Murdering them and eating their liver as a way of revenge."

Dean stared at him, incredulous. "Dude, I've said it before and I'll say it again: you are a walking encyclopedia of weirdness."

Sam huffed, "It's called an education, Dean."

"Weird," his brother insisted.

"Whatever."

"So," said Dean, opening the bag and pulling out a chocolate-slathered doughnut, "it looks like desecrating a historic monument or two is on the menu tonight, huh?"

Tugging his laptop from its carrying case, Sam settled on the opposite side of the table. "Maybe we should wait for while, just take it easy for a day or two."

"What? Why?"

Stifling the truth with a bite of doughnut, Sam opened his computer. "We don't even know what we're looking for exactly."

"Dude, this town has a whopping two cemeteries and a stoplight. I'm pretty sure we can figure it out."

"I just want to make sure that you're . . ." he caught himself an instant to late. "I mean that we do this right," he finished lamely.

Dean frowned at him. "I can take care of myself, Sammy."

"You just got out of the hospital, Dean!"

"And there's no way in hell I'm going to let anyone else die because of it. Now put those geekboy powers to work and let's find ourselves a ghost to bust."

o()o


	10. Chapter 10

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone out there in TVLand who has taken the time to read and review this story. You guys have completely blown me away and made me feel so welcome in this new fandom. I can't tell you enough, how much I appreciate it!  
__**Nifty Fact of the Day:**The bit about the fishing bait? It's actually true. Muncie, Indiana has a law against carrying fishing tackle into it's cemeteries. I wish I knew why.  
_

o(10)o

It was a little known fact that bringing fishing bait into an Indiana cemetery was illegal, punishable by a hefty fine and up to two months in jail.

Luckily, there was no such law against guns.

Dodging graves as he raced in the direction of his brother's cry for help, Dean jammed two shells into the shotgun he held and snapped it closed in one practiced motion.

"Sam!"

"Dean! Over here!"

He hurdled over a smaller headstone and veered to his left, towards the sound of his brother's voice. "Hang on Sammy," he muttered under his breath, "I'm coming."

The cemetery was larger than he had expected it to be, a labyrinth of marble and granite. The flashlight he carried cast ever-changing shadows across the manicured grass, turning sculpted angels and carven crosses into foreboding silhouettes.

"Dean!"

Tripping over an oversized memorial wreath, scattering dried flower petals and stems in his wake, he rounded a large mausoleum and discovered his brother.

Sam was pinioned against a large tombstone, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead and dampening his hair. A thin line of blood ran down his temple and a large crack in the marble marked where his body had collided with the monument. The sawed-off that he had chosen for the night's hunt lay useless, several feet away.

"Sam!"

"Hang on Sammy," Dean shouted, fisting his hands in Sam's jacket. He used all his might to try to wrench his brother away from the headstone.

Sam yelped in pain, caught between Dean's strength and the unseen force that had him in its grasp, but didn't budge.

"Damnit!" Releasing his brother, Dean raised his weapon, "Come on, show yourself you freaky bastard."

"Dean!" Sam wheezed, legs kicking feebly. "Behind you."

He turned an instant to slow, and the blow caught him across the chest, sending him sprawling. The impact with the ground knocked the air out of his lungs and sent fresh agony through his already aching chest. It was only by sheer willpower that he managed to keep hold of his shotgun.

"Dean! No!"

A figure materialized in the darkness, rippling as though it were caught in some flameless heat. The ghost was ugly, uglier than usual, rotting and gray with blackening blood crusting around its mouth, its eyes cloudy and dull. It barely spared him a glance, turning toward his brother instead.

Sam arched against the stone, mouth opening in a strangled shout, as the spirit advanced on him. Blood blossomed through the fabric of his shirt.

Struggling to his feet with a groan, Dean grappled for his shotgun. "Hey, you gnarly son of a bitch!"

The spirit turned toward him, its jaw hanging off of decaying tendons, revealing putrid, things crawling inside of it's mouth.

It might have been a man once, an Indian warrior whose village had been savagely attacked. All Sam's research said so, but to Dean it was just another unnatural thing to kill. And he was going to do just that.

"Yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you."

The ghost's face contorted, screaming. It's incensed wail scraped along the hollows of Dean's bones like ragged fingernails. He fought back a shudder at the sound and took aim.

Before he could pull the trigger, the ghost raised a rotted hand, bone peeking through the yellowed nail and graying flesh.

Dean's head snapped back with the force of the unseen strike, a burst of freezing pain, and he tasted blood. Wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, he raised the shotgun, keeping the spirit's attention focused on him. "Now you're really starting to piss me off."

There was the odor of ozone followed by the eye-wateringly acrid stench of superheated rock salt and the ghost dissolved into in a spray of white crystals.

Sam slid down the gravestone, clutching at his belly.

"Sam!" Dean fell to his knees in front of his brother, pushing layers of clothing out of the way and checking the damage. "Hey. Hey."

Sam pushed his hands away. "Cutting it a little close, weren't you?" he groaned, wincing.

Dean's mouth quirked up into a smile, some of his apprehension evaporating: his brother couldn't be in too bad of shape if he could still muster the energy to bitch.

"Hey," he said, getting to his feet and extending a hand toward his brother, "I've got better things to do than to save your sorry butt."

Sam gave him an incredulous look and then huffed; taking the offered hand.

Biting back a wince as he hauled his little brother to his feet, Dean clapped Sam on the back. "Come on, Sammy, we've got some bones to burn."

o()o

Digging out the grave was as slow and arduous task as it ever had been. Sam kept watch, a flashlight trained into the growing pit while Dean moved shovelful after shovelful of dank earth onto a tarp beside the grave, a trick they had picked up along the way to reduce the blatancy of their disturbance.

It had taken them almost an hour to find the ancient gravestone, eroded down to almost a blank pillar of granite by decades of rain and snow. The grave was a deep one, its earthen edges extending above Dean's head, he had been digging for two hours and there was still no sign of a casket.

"You know," he said, pausing to swipe sweat from his eyes, "I think it was your turn to do this."

"No way," Sam said, one arm still held protectively over his abdomen. "I did it last time and the time before."

Scoffing, Dean resumed shoveling. "I don't remember that."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Probably because you know I'm right."

He wouldn't have let Sam shovel even if it actually had been his turn. His brother had taken one hell of a beating, but there was nothing wrong with giving him a hard time. It was his right after all, one of the many privileges that came with being an older sibling.

Sam huffed. "No, you're not."

"Of course I am, I'm the oldest, which means I'm always right."

"No, it doesn't."

"Oh, yeah," another shovelful of dirt accompanied his words. "It totally does."

Sam rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath and Dean grinned.

"Man," he said, jabbing the spade into the ground again and sending the dirt flying over his shoulder "I could really go for an enchilada right now."

Above him, Sam perked, "You're hungry?"

"No," Dean contradicted, "I'm freaking starving."

Sam looked away, surveying the cemetery, but not before Dean caught the smile curving his brother's mouth.

Sam had been trying to feed him all week, but the antibiotics and the ailment he was fighting had managed to do the impossible: quell his appetite. Now, it felt like he could eat his own weight in Mexican food. Or maybe a Chinese buffet. Or maybe . . .

The metal of the shovel collided with something solid and Dean blew out a relieved breath. "Got him," he said, stretching out the ache in his back and slinging the shovel across his shoulders. "Toss me down the salt."

Sam knelt, rummaging through the bag at his feet. "Heads up."

Extending a hand to catch the container, Dean looked up and felt gooseflesh sweep over his skin. The salt landed at his feet, forgotten.

Hunkered at the edge of the re-dug grave, just inches away from Sam's feet, the thing from the motel stared down at him, hair whipping around its body in an unfelt breeze.

"Sam!" he yelled, scrabbling for the salt and finding nothing. Where the hell was it? "Look out!"

Sam tensed, his hand going to the shotgun Dean knew was concealed inside of his jacket, scanning the cemetery. "What? What's wrong?"

"Don't you see it?"

The creature tilted its head, following Dean's gaze and glancing up at Sam, before returning its stare to him.

"You touch my brother and I swear I'll waste your unnatural ass." Dean ground out.

Sam knelt at the edge of the grave, eyes wide, hand grasping down toward him. "Dean, there's nothing here."

"Don't move Sam," he commanded, fingers finally curling around the salt tin.

He dumped out a handful of crystals and threw it at the apparition next to his brother.

Never taking its eyes off of him, the thing slipped out of the way, and Sam got a face full of rock salt.

"Dean! What the hell?"

It leaned forward, scrutinizing him, but making no move to come closer and Dean found himself staring back. The creature's hair blew out behind it and this time he felt the wind, cold and icy as any winter's night. It sliced through the fabric of his shirt and made him shiver.

Whispers rose around him, ebbing and swelling like the tide until they drowned out all the other noises around him.

In the distance, he could hear the gentle rush of the ocean, the ebb and flow in perfect time with his heartbeat. Barefoot, he walked toward the sound, feeling the ground under him turn into warm sand. 

Frozen, Dean strained his ears, trying to pick out anything he could understand. He didn't see the creature move, but suddenly dark eyes filled his vision. The susurrus turned into a deafening roar, squeezing at his temples until Dean thought his head would explode.

He fell to his knees with a pained cry, hands going to protect his ears from the din, only to realize that the noise wasn't outside of him, it was in his head.

The ocean had turned the color of pewter, whitecaps forming, churning with the sudden cold wind that blew. Instead of the soothing rush of the tide; he heard the whispers of the dead, beckoning him to join them in their rotted respite.

The creature dropped to its knees with him, a hand outstretched, black-ringed eyes imploring.

Dean lurched backwards. "Get the hell away from me," he ground out, hands still mashed against his head.

"Dean!" His brother's voice sliced through the clamor and strong hands clutched at him, dragging him out of the grave.

Dean hit the sod face first and shoved Sam away, grappling for his brother's sawed-off as Sam stumbled. Cocking the weapon, Dean scrabbled to the edge of the grave and found it empty.

"What the--"

Before he could finish the thought, both he and Sam were sent sprawling and the warrior they were hunting shimmered into existence at the foot of its grave.

Flickering like a mirage, it was crouched over Sam in an instant, a rotted hand pressed against his belly. The tendons in Sam's neck stood out, and he choked off a pained scream.

Scrabbling to his feet, Dean allowed his instincts take over, firing the shotgun in his hands even as he aimed. Sam collapsed back against the sod, gasping, and as the last traces of the Shawnee warrior dissolved into the air, Dean caught a glimpse of the thing from the motel as it disappeared behind a large headstone several yards away.

o()o

Sam hobbled to the motel room, shoving the door and holding it open for his brother.

Dean limped inside and flopped onto the bed with a groan. "Well," he said, throwing an arm across his face, "That pretty much sucked."

"What the hell happened out there Dean?" asked Sam, shutting the door and sitting onto his own bed with a wince.

Dean groaned. "I think it's what most people like to call an ass kicking, Sammy. At least we torched that scary son of a bitch, though."

"That's not what I mean."

Dean stiffened, his face still hidden in the crook of his elbow. "Yeah, I know."

"Well, are we going to talk about it?"

Dean didn't move. "Nope."

"I'm serious," Sam said with a frown.

"So am I."

"Dean--"

Dean sat up, face hardening. "What part of 'no' aren't you getting, Sammy?"

Sam opened his arms as his own temper flared. "The part where you're seeing things that aren't real, Dean! I've seen a lot of crap in my life, scary crap. But watching you tonight," he let his arms drop. "You made my blood run cold, man."

"Dude, I'm—"

"You're not fine, Dean, okay?" Sam's voice rose in a mixture of anger and desperation. "You haven't been since you . . ." Died. The word caught in his throat and Sam swallowed hard against it, his anger collapsing on itself. "Not since Genoa."

Dean's shoulders slumped, jaw tightening. "You're going to think I'm completely nuts."

"Already do."

"Yeah, all right, fine," Dean said, looking down at his hands. "I think something happened down by the river."

Sam sat up a little straighter, watching his brother closely. "Okay."

Dean didn't meet his eyes, still staring at his interlaced fingers. "Like you said, I've been seeing things that aren't there. Hearing things too, like whispers only there aren't any words that I can understand."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No, and I'm not sure I want to." Reaching, he popped the tops off of each of the orange bottles that stood on his nightstand, tapping a pill from each into his cupped palm. "I just want it to stop."

Sam swallowed hard at the admission, nodding. "We'll figure it out."

Dean regarded his handful of pills, quirking an eyebrow. "Probably just a side effect of the pharmacy I'm taking twice a day."

"Antibiotics don't usually make you see things, Dean."

"Yeah, I know."

"I think we should go see Bobby." Getting to his feet, Sam grabbed a plastic motel cup and filled it with water. "If nothing else we both could use the break," he said, offering the tumbler to his brother.

Dean inclined his head in thanks and tossed back the pills with a grimace. "I hate to admit it, but a break does sound good."

Sam sat back on his bed, the action sending a stab of pain through his side, a reminder that Dean hadn't been the only one who had gotten his ass kicked that night.

"Going to live?" Dean asked, brow furrowing.

A quick examination revealed that his lower ribs and belly looked like a Canadian sunrise, a long scratch, crusted with blood, bisecting the two. It was ugly, but not deep. He was going to be sore for a couple days at least. "Yeah, I think so."

Stretching, Dean grappled for one of the orange prescription bottles that he had just replaced on his nightstand and lobbed it across the room. "Here."

Sam caught the bottle midair and examined the label. "Indocin?"

"Painkiller." Dean took another swallow of water and offered the half full glass back to Sam. "The doc gave it to me for my ribs; you look like you could use a couple."

Sam set the bottle aside, opting instead for just a sip of the water. "I'm fine," he said with a wince. "But thanks."

"Yeah, sure." Lying back on the bed, Dean turned his head to cough. The sound was still thick and raw-sounding but better than it had been, much to Sam's relief. "Just hang onto it; you're going to feel like hell in the morning."

Sam obeyed, knowing he wouldn't take any of the pills, no matter how he felt in the morning. "I'll give Bobby a call tomorrow and see if he's up for some company."

"I think that's a damn good idea, Sammy."

"It's Sam, Dean. Sam."

o()o


	11. Chapter 11

o()o  
_**Author's Note: **Thanks to Kizume A.W. and Amarintha for the beta. You guys rock my socks, totally. I also feel the need to thank the wonderful jenilee who always leaves such glowing reviews. It's always nice to know what you're doing right. :)_  
**_Nifty Fact for the Day:_ **_In the episide Provenence (S1E19) when Dean, Sam, and Sarah are examining the painting and spot the razor has moved, Jensen Ackles refers to Sam as "Jared." Whoops!_

o(11)o

The Impala kicked up a cloud of dust, rocks colliding with the undercarriage as the paved road turned into gravel. With the driver's side window down, the air seemed to change, smelling a little less like nature and a little more like rust and motor oil.

He had kept himself going with a steady stream of Aerosmith and Black Sabbath, singing along with every song he could to stave off the effects of the medication he was taking.

Beside him, Sam had nodded off, his face pressed against the Impala's passenger side window like he used to do when he was a kid. For once, his little brother seemed to be sleeping peacefully and Dean was content to let him do so, for a little while longer at least.

The gravel road turned into nothing more than dirt and a mismatched sign came into view, hunks of scrap metal welded together to proclaim that he had reached his destination. Turning into the salvage yard, Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

He was home.

Cars, some stacked as junk, others waiting to be fixed up, created a labyrinth of aluminum and steel. Pillars of tires added their own particular charm to the area, rising up out of the glass-peppered soil. When he was younger, the salvage yard had been an ideal place for endless games of hide-and-seek, one of the few games their father had encouraged both boys to play. Now that he was older, the yard was more of an obstacle course, but still just as much fun.

Pulling into the driveway, he passed the battered blue tow-truck that provided most of Bobby's business. From his spot on the hood, Rumsfeld spared the Impala an unconcerned glance and a single chuff before laying his head back down between his massive paws.

Bobby's hadn't changed much since the last time they had visited. Maybe there were a few more hubcaps affixed to the flaking blue paint of the house, or maybe another upstairs window had broken and was now covered with plywood, it was hard to tell.

Guiding the Impala up to the house and cutting her engine, Dean took a moment to cock his head to one side and then the other, working out the kinks that had been formed by endless hours spent behind the wheel.

"Sam." He placed a hand on Sam's chest, shaking his brother gently. "Hey, Sammy."

Sam awoke with a jerk, and then snuffled, blinking hard against the afternoon sunlight. "Ugh," he mumbled, sitting up with a groan. "How long was I out?"

"Since about three blocks away from the motel, back in New Pekin."

"Oh," he said, sitting up with a groan and mashing a hand against his face. "Are we there?"

Dean nodded. "Just pulled in."

The front door of the house opened and Bobby appeared on the porch, clad in his usual faded flannel and torn blue jeans, a beer in his hand. Eyes landing on the car in his driveway, he raised his beer. "Are you idjits going to sit out in that car all day?" he yelled. "Or are you going to get your butts up here and have a beer?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance and a smile and opened the Impala's doors sliding out of the car.

Stretching out his legs with a gratified moan, Dean grinned at the older man. "Hey Bobby!"

Sam raised one hand in a wave, the other rubbing at his eyes. "Hey Bobby!" he echoed, dimpling.

Bobby inclined his head, a broad smile splitting his face under the graying beard. "Dean. Sam," he said. "It's mighty good to see you boys."

Dean grabbed his bag from the back seat and took the porch stairs two at a time. He shook Bobby's outstretched hand and was pulled into a hug, the older man pounding him heartily on the back.

"It's good to see you, too," he said, returning the thumps to Bobby's back. "Man, do I have to pee."

Bobby laughed, releasing him, and gave him a shove toward the front door. Get on in there, then. Your room's all made up."

o()o

The small room was dusty and cluttered with books no different from the rest of Bobby's house, but the beds were freshly made. The colorful quilts seemed out of place amongst the various tomes of demonology and volumes of paranormal references.

Dean dropped his duffel bag with a grateful sounding sigh. "It's good to be home," he said, kneeling to unzip the bag and tugging his prescription bottles free of some wadded up clothing.

Sam watched his brother set the bottles up on the nightstand that separated the two beds, surprised. Dean loathed taking pills almost as much as he hated the hospitals where he usually got them. "I can't believe you're still taking those," he said.

Dean arched an eyebrow in his direction. "I'm supposed to, aren't I? The doc told me to take them until they were gone."

"Well, yeah, I just meant . . ."

"I know what you meant. I have to look out for you, Sammy," he said, shaking the bottle and making the pills rattle inside. "And I can't watch your back if I'm busy coughing up blood."

Sam winced at the thought. "It's Sam," he said automatically, looking away before Dean could see the twinge of apprehension his words had caused.

"Yeah, whatever." Oblivious, his brother re-zipped his bag and lobbed it across the room, where it landed on the far bed with a muffled thump. "I call the window,"

Sam unshouldered his own bag and gave Dean an incredulous look. "You always get the window."

"That's because I always call it." Dean said, employing the tone that could only come when using irrefutable big brother logic.

Shaking his head with a sigh, Sam sank down on the opposite bed, not bothering to argue. He had learned through years of experience that it would do no good. Top bunk at Pastor Jim's, shotgun in the car, first shot at the shower or the bed by the window at Bobby's, you had to call it or else you were screwed. Plain and simple.

"Come, on," Dean said with a chuckle. "It's not like I called dibs on your prom date or anything."

"Dean, you did try to call dibs on my junior prom date."

Dean shrugged, sitting down on the bed. "What can I say? She was hot."

Bobby appeared in the doorway, three bottles of beer in his hands. "You boys getting settled in?" he asked, offering a bottle to Sam. "I've got sandwiches and junk for lunch, when you're ready to eat."

Sam nodded with a smile, taking the bottle, knowing full well that it contained a couple spoonfuls of holy water. "Thanks Bobby," he said, taking a long drink.

"Yeah," Dean echoed, "We appreciate the place to crash."

"You boys know you're always welcome here." Bobby said. Reaching to hand Dean his beer, he paused, frowning at the orange prescription bottles that now graced the dusty nightstand.

The older man didn't say a word, he merely raised an eyebrow in Dean's direction, and Sam had to fight the smile tugging at his lips as his big brother squirmed under the gaze.

"I picked up a little bug a few towns back." Dean muttered, suddenly very interested in the beer bottle he held. "No big deal."

Bobby's gaze returned to the nightstand. "Looks like a bit more than 'just a bug' if you ask me."

Dean was alarmingly still, skin ashen and lips tinged blue. His normally expressive face was slack, green eyes staring sightlessly into the swollen sky.

Sam clutched at the leather jacket his brother was wearing wrenching Dean upright, clinging to him unwilling to believe what was happening.

Dean's head lolled back, hands hanging limply at his sides. Silent. Unmoving.

"No. Oh God, Dean, no. Please no."

Sam fought back the shudder that tried to scuttle its way up his spine at the memory and took another long pull from his beer.

Getting to his feet, Dean paused for a moment to steady himself on the foot of the bed. "I'm fine." he said, reaching to ruffle Sam's hair. "Really."

Sam batted at his brother with a scowl. There was no question about it; Dean had the uncanny ability to annoy him out of even his darkest thoughts. Sam had long suspected that it was a skill his brother prided on honing to perfection.

Bobby huffed quietly, shaking his head. "If you say so."

"I do say so." Dean said, taking a pull of his own beer. "Now, how about I help you with those sandwiches?"

"Boy, do I look like I need help slapping cheese on bread?" The older man's affronted tone was belied by the sparkle in his eyes as he stepped out of the doorway, letting Dean pass by into the hallway.

Dean tossed a grin over his shoulder. "No, but I seem to remember this one time when we were kids and you thought that you could substitute-- " He broke off, laughing, as he ducked under the swat that was coming toward his head.

"Shut up and get a move on," Bobby said, following Dean down the hall toward the kitchen, "before I decide to let you starve."

"Yes, Sir."

Lying back on the bed, Sam closed his eyes, some of his grim mood dissipating. With the sun filtering into the small room and the sound of Bobby and Dean arguing good-naturedly in the kitchen, it was almost easy to forget how hard the last handful of months had been.

He had spent a good chunk of his childhood in the place. He had learned to shoot on the welded steel targets Bobby had constructed out back, learned to hunt amongst the out of commission cars and mountains of junk, tracking Dean who was laying in wait for the perfect moment to jump out and scare the crap out of him.

It was here Sam had learned about the miracle of peanut butter and sliced cheese sandwiches, much to Dean's (and later Jess's) chagrin. And it was here that birthdays were always spent with a package of Twinkies and control over the television for the entire day.

Sam had never known what caused the rift between their father and Bobby, his Dad hadn't exactly been the forthcoming type, but he would never forget the relief that had washed through him when Bobby had forgiven him, forgiven them.

"Sammy!" Dean's voice came down the hallway and Sam opened his eyes. "Come and eat."

"Before your no-good brother eats everything in the kitchen!"

"Hey! It was only a handful of chips." Dean's offended tone was lessened by the fact that he sounded like he was talking around a mouthful of food.

"One? Try six . . ."

"Sam, are you really going to let him talk to me like that?"

Chuckling, Sam sat up and ran a hand through his hair. "Absolutely," he called back, getting to his feet.

It was good to be home.

o()o

Dean washed, Sam dried, side by side at Bobby's sink.

It had been a routine for years, starting when Sam, in the middle of a growth spurt, couldn't be trusted not to fumble the dishes and break them; and Dean, full of mischief, couldn't be trusted not to snap his brother with the dishtowel. Today was no different.

"You're crazy, man,"

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Dean dunked a plate into the rinse water. "Me?" he said, holding the dish out to Sam. "You're the one that's crazy. It's not even scary."

Sam took the plate swiping the beads of water away and tossing the towel back over his shoulder. "It's not supposed to be scary. It's supposed to weird you out. You know, make you think."

"Think about what? How rotten the actors are? Or how bad the storyline is?"

Sam huffed. "Oh, and yours is so much better?"

"Dude, the theme, the narrator at the beginning, there's no topping it."

"No way, my theme song is totally better and there's an actual story line to follow. Not to mention--"

"Boys," Both Sam and Dean jumped at the new voice, turning to look to where Bobby leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. "Do I need to split you two up?"

Dean scrubbed at another dish. "Settle something for us, Bobby," he said and Bobby's eyebrows rose. "Which one's better: The Outer Limits or the X-files?"

The older man paused, and then scoffed, shaking his head. "You two idjits don't know nothing about nothing," he said, turning to walk away. "Neither of them shows could ever hold a candle to the Twilight Zone."

There was a moment of stunned silence and then Dean rolled his eyes.

"You can't be serious!" he called after Bobby's retreating form.

The older man's deep chuckle and the sound of the front door creaking closed was their only reply. A moment later, Sam heard the distinct sound of the older man's tow truck grumbling to life.

"Guess that means I win by default." Dean said, the corner of his mouth turning up.

Sam snorted turning back to the sink. "Not a chance," he responded, gathering up a stack of clean plates and opening a cabinet to put them away. A drawer banged shut behind him.

"Hey, take it easy," he said, stacking the dishes and closing the cabinet door. "Bobby'll kick your ass if you break anything."

"Sam," Dean's previously-cheerful voice was low and strained. "That wasn't me."

"Hey. Hey! What's going on?" Sam started forward, reaching out to his brother. "Talk to me."

Dean didn't respond, and Sam watched the color drain from his brother's face.

Behind him, another drawer wrenched open and slammed closed. The cabinet he had just shut flew wide open, colliding with the wall behind it hard enough to dent the plaster.

Heart stuttering, Sam stared at the sudden chaos that surrounded them. All the cabinets in the kitchen beat like giant wooden wings, slamming open and closed.

The chill that had skittered up his spine was only half from the plummeting temperature in the kitchen and Sam shivered. He could see crystals of ice forming on the freshly washed dishes, spreading out like tiny reaching fingers. They rattled together in the drainer, as if they felt the unnatural cold as strongly as Sam did.

"Dean?"

Dean's gaze darted around the room, watching the pandemonium, features tense.

The knife that they had used to make sandwiches slid across the counter and Dean barely had time to lurch out of the way as it launched itself off of the worn Formica, narrowly missing him, and embedded itself to the hilt into the far wall.

"Dean!"

Strong, unseen, hands shoved him, sending him stumbling backwards out of the kitchen. He tried to get back to his brother, but couldn't cross the threshold. Swearing, Sam strained against the invisible force keeping him at bay.

One of the beer bottles on the counter exploded, sending glass in all directions.

Yelping, Dean fell back a single step, bringing up an arm to shield his face from the shards. "Son of a bitch!"

Several of Bobby's books took to the air, the heavy tomes becoming airborne projectiles. Sam dodged a leather bound edition of Mosby's Guide to the Paranormal and cringed sympathetically as another heavy reference glanced off of his big brother's shoulder.

Dean didn't seem to notice, though, staring at whatever was to the left of him, body thrumming and tense.

More books flew from their piles, rustling through the air and crashing into pictures and walls alike, sending up clouds of dust and the occasional errant page.

A smaller reference collided with Dean's temple, opening up a half-healed wound leftover from the vengeful spirit in New Pekin. Blood dribbled down the side of his face and soaked into the shoulder of his shirt.

Finally, Dean seemed to find what he was looking for, eyes focusing on something only he could see. He held out a hand, fingers splayed, eyes trained on an empty space just to his left.

"Don't move Sam," he ordered, his words coming out on white plumes of breath. "Just stay where you are."

"Dean . . ."

"Just do it, Sam."

Dean fell back another step, bracing his hands on Bobby's countertop "What the do you want from me?" he murmured to the empty space in front of him, and then raised his voice to an incensed shout. "What the hell do you want?"

As abruptly as it had started, the chaos ended. Books dropped to the ground like wounded birds and the cabinets and drawers all banged open one last time before remaining still, displaying their wares like a autopsy in ceramic and silver.

Deans stood in the middle of the kitchen, unmoving, his brow furrowed. He tilted his head to one side, listening

The silence was thick and expectant. Sam didn't realize he was holding his breath until his lungs began to burn. Even then, he couldn't bring himself to exhale, afraid of shattering the fragile calm that had fallen.

Dean frowned, leaning forward. "I can't . . . no, wait! Damnit!"

The invisible barricade Sam was still struggling to break through disappeared and he stumbled into the room. His heart was still pounding against his ribs, not as fast as it had been, but still sledgehammer heavy. "Dean," he said quietly, glancing at the mess that surrounded his older brother, "what the hell was that all about?"

Dean swiped at the blood that was still streaming down his face and swallowed hard. "I wish I knew, Sammy. Believe me."

o()O


	12. Chapter 12

o()o  
_**Author's Note: **Thanks so much to everyone out there in PCLand who has taken the time to read and review this, your feedback keeps me going during weeks like this, when I'd rather just call it quits. I appreciate you guys so much!_  
_**Nifty Fact for the Day: **The airport terminal where Sam and Dean are boarding the flight to exorcise the demon in Phantom Traveller, is actually the terminal Jared and Jensen fly out of when they go back to Los Angeles_

o(12)o

They had cleaned up the worst of the broken glass and were in the middle of gathering scattered books when the front door creaked open and familiar footfalls echoed through the house.

Dean looked up, meeting Sam's gaze across the kitchen. "We are so screwed," he whispered and Sam nodded grimly, adding another book to the stack in his arms.

"Big time."

"You wouldn't believe what this moron did--" Bobby walked into the room and froze mid-sentence. He glanced around the disaster area that should have been his kitchen, before turning to stare at the blood that was still oozing down the side of Dean's face.

"Hey Bobby," Dean said weakly, trying unsuccessfully to stuff a handful of loose pages back in the book they had fluttered from. "You're back."

The older man's eyebrows rose as he looked at the knife that was still embedded in the far wall of the kitchen. Walking over, he grabbed the hilt and yanked the blade free with a grunt.

"I hope to hell all this wasn't over X-files versus the Outer Limits."

"We'll clean everything up, Bobby," Sam said carefully adding his armload of books to a nearby stack. "Promise."

"Damn right you will," he said, dropping the knife into the sink. "Get up here, Dean, and let me take a look at you. You're bleeding all over everything."

Dean obeyed, getting to his feet with a wince and leaving the mangled book on the floor.

Bobby cupped a hand around the back of his neck as he examined the gash, as though Dean were still seven years old and would try to squirm away from the probing touch.

"Sam," he said, letting go of Dean and turning to open the freezer, "go and get my kit, you know where it is."

Sam nodded and disappeared down the hallway.

"Here."

A bag of frozen peas came sailing toward Dean. His hand shot out reflexively, catching the package and pressing it against his head. He knew he was smearing blood all over the sack, but it didn't matter, Bobby had been using that same bag of peas for an icepack since he was a teenager. He seriously doubted they were going to turn up on a dinner plate any time soon.

Sam returned to the kitchen with a large green tackle box. Dean watched as his brother undid the brass clasps and opened the box to reveal a myriad of medical supplies.

Bobby's kit was a true testament to his resourcefulness and ingenuity. Half-first-aid kit and half supernatural drug-store, it was nothing out of the ordinary to have to move several chicken's feet to get to the bottle of aspirin.

"So," Bobby said, wetting a cloth under the faucet and offering it to Dean. "You boys want to tell me what happened here."

Dean exchanged the bag of peas for the rag and wiped where the dried blood itched the worst, unable to meet the older man's gaze. Across the room, he could see Sam examining the book he had abandoned on the floor, focused on arranging the loose pages.

Bobby sighed heavily. "Listen, you idjits, how the hell am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me what's going on?"

The copious silence that fell was broken only by the occasional crinkle of the makeshift ice-pack that Dean held and the rustle of loose pages in Sam's hands.

"Boys . . ."

"We're not exactly sure." Sam said at last, pressing his lips together. "But it has something to do with Dean."

"Something's wrong with Dean?" Bobby arched an eyebrow, "other than what's normally wrong with him?"

"Hey!"

Sam sighed, shoulders slumping. "He's been acting different for a couple of weeks. He hasn't been sleeping at night--"

"_Hey_!" Dean protested again, learning forward and waving a hand between the two other men. "I'm standing _right here_."

Sam paid him no heed, plowing on and Dean made a note to pummel his little brother for it later. "I thought it was just the pneumonia messing with his head."

"Pneumonia, huh?" Bobby's eyes narrowed in understanding and he turned a shrewd gaze Dean's way. "Guess that explains 'just a bug'," he said.

Dean looked away, suddenly very interested in the stained rag he held, turning it over in his hands. This conversation had taken a sharp turn and was quickly going to hell in a hand basket. "Yeah."

"But what happened today had nothing to do with him being sick." Sam looked up from the now repaired book, brow furrowed. "The temperature change, the flying objects, they're classic signs of a haunting."

"There's no way in hell this house is haunted." The older man's tone suggested that Sam might as well have implied that his house had cockroaches or gargantuan termites.

Sam held up a placating hand. "Okay, so not a haunting, but definitely something out of the ordinary and it definitely has something to do with Dean.

"Okay," Bobby said, rubbing a hand over his beard as he turned his attention to Dean. "So, Why you?"

Quirking an eyebrow, the corner of Dean's mouth turned up. "Must be my good looks."

"Yeah, right." Bobby rolled his eyes. "Something had to have happened Dean, crap like this don't just happen out of the blue."

"Don't underestimate the Winchester charm, Bobby." Dean said with a shrug. "I'm like Hefner or something."

The older man ignored the comment, looking past him to where Sam had stiffened, turning away. "Something on your mind, boy?"

"Sam--" Dean couldn't get the threat out fast enough.

"Dean died." His brother's quiet words hung in the air, sucking all of the oxygen out of the room.

Bobby paled. "What?"

Sam stared down at his clenched fists, the muscle in his jaw working furiously. "Two weeks ago, we were hunting a dracae and he drowned in the river, that could be what started all of this."

"It doesn't count!" Dean objected. "It was only for a minute."

"You died?" Bobby's voice was low, deadly quiet.

Dean nodded slowly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. "Yeah," he said, sobering.

Bowing his head, Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damnit, Dean," he said through a sigh.

"Bobby, I--" Dean stepped forward, but the older man held up a hand, keeping him at bay.

"Finish getting cleaned up," he said, face unreadable, voice suddenly flat. "We'll worry about the kitchen later."

o()o

Sam sank wearily onto the bed, staring at the worn carpet between his shoes.

His mind was in overdrive, reworking the information it had been given, only to find more questions without answers.

"Kinda like being kids again," Dean said, with a halfhearted grin, tugging his blood-soaked shirt over his head and rummaging for a clean one. "Getting sent to our room and all."

"I guess so."

"Hey," Dean said. "Do you remember the time we fed Rumsfeld an entire jar of peanut butter? Man, I didn't think Bobby was _ever_ going to let us come out after that."

Sam nodded, not really listening. What was he missing? What wasn't his brother telling him?

Pulling a shirt out of his duffel, Dean gave it a cautious sniff before making a face and shoving it deep back into the bag. "Not that one," he muttered, resuming his hunt.

Three rejected shirts later he pulled on a plain gray t-shirt. "I don't know about you, Sammy, but I think it might be time to hit a Laundromat."

"Sure, whatever."

"Hey, what's the matter with you?" Dean shoved at his shoulder. "You look like you're sucking on a lemon."

Sam opened his arms, scowling. "How can this not bother you, Dean? How can you just ignore it like nothing's happening?"

"I'm not ignoring anything."

"Yes, you are," Sam's voice rose to match his mounting anger. "You just keep pretending that nothing is wrong, like last month never even happened."

"What do you want me to do, Sam? Huh?" Zipping his bag with more force than was necessary, Dean pitched it back to the ground. "Do you want me to cry about it? Maybe listen to some sad music? Or do you want me to deal the way you do and just crack open a bottle of booze?"

Sam winced, half from the cheap shot his brother had just taken at him and half from the truth the statement contained. "I want you to talk to me so we can figure this out before this thing, whatever it is, decides to do more than throw books at you," he said.

"Drop it, Sam," Dean said, turning away. "It's none of your business."

Sam felt his temper flare again. For all that Dean seemed to be straightforward and open; he kept his secrets as fiercely as their father ever had.

"How am I supposed to help you if--"

Dean spun back to face him, gesturing angrily. "Who said I asked for your help, Sam?"

. "Look, man," he snapped, "I don't know what your problem is but--"

"My problem?" Dean's eyebrows shot upward, features hardening. "My problem is that something is wrong with me, Sam, really freaking wrong. I've been trying to figure it out for weeks and nothing makes any sense."

Sam froze, caught between hurt and anger. "Weeks?"

Dean's eyes slid away some of the ire fading from his face, replaced with guilt. "Yeah, since the night we killed the Dracae."

It was the final blow; his brother couldn't have done any more damage if he'd used his fists. Sam felt his mouth fall open. "You've been lying to me for almost a month?"

"No!" Dean dropped onto his bed, slapping his thighs with open palms. "Damn it, Sam, no. Not lying."

"Well, what the hell would you call it, then?"

"I don't' know." Bowing his head, Dean scrubbed a hand over his hair, the last of the anger draining out of his posture. "I don't know what to do, Sammy."

Tamping down the sharp stab of betrayal in his chest, Sam leaned forward, ducking his head to meet his brother's eyes. "Dean, Bobby's right, we can't figure this out if we don't know all the details," he said. "You need to tell me, Dean. Everything."

"Sam I don't see . . ." Dean glanced up at Sam's face and sighed. "Fine. Where do you want me to start?"

Sam closed his eyes and nodded to himself. "Start at the beginning I guess."

o()o

As far as peace offerings went, ham and cheese sandwiches were pretty lame as a rule.

Dean gingerly placed the plate and a cup of fresh coffee on the scarred desk, as though he expected the sandwiches, the desk, or more likely Bobby, to explode if he jostled them too much.

The older man hadn't said a word to him since that afternoon, even after he had talked to Sam, and Dean was to the point where he'd do just about anything to make things right.

"Bobby?" he said quietly.

Bobby didn't look up. "Not now, boy. I've got work to do."

"I know." Dean hunched his shoulders, head down. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about all of this."

There was an instant of silence, and then Bobby slammed the book he was reading shut hard enough to send a cloud of dust fluttering through the sunshine. The sound made Dean jump, startled. "You're sorry? You're _sorry_? Damnit Dean, I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to be careful."

"Bobby--"

Bobby held up a silencing hand. "Don't you get it? You boys are the only family I have left, I've lost damn near everything else." The older man scrubbed a hand over his face, thumb and forefinger covering his eyes. He sighed, heavily, looking away. "and there's no way in hell that I'm about to lose you too."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean said quietly, taken aback at the outburst.

Bobby huffed. "Damn straight you're not, not if I have anything to say about it. Now get out of here, I have work to do."

"Bobby—"

Bobby didn't let him finish. "There's a '84 Firebird out back that I need to get up and running," he said, reopening the book in front of him, flipping pages. "Why don't you go and make yourself useful for a change."

The corner of Dean's mouth turned up, knowing he'd been forgiven.

"Yes, Sir."

o()o


	13. Chapter 13

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I would just like to announce to all of you in PCLand, that I am sunburnt to a crisp. Seriously, I'm extra-crispy. Thanks to everyone for all of the kind words and encouragement. I'm so lucky to have such awesome readers. _  
_**Nifty Fact of the Day: **Green, Brown, Hazel, Blue, nobody can seem to figure out what color Sam's eyes are. For the record: Jared Padalecki's eyes are bluish green. (Thanks to my awesome beta, Amarintha, for that fact!)_

o(13)o

"This is ridiculous."

Sam looked up from the library computer, glancing over to where his brother sat. Dean was surrounded by as many newspapers, both local and out of state, as the library had been able to scavenge. The result was a fortress of yellowing, rat-nibbled dailies ranging back to the dawn of time.

In addition to the dailies, the librarian had also managed to scrounge up several yellowing tabloids. Dean had spent a good chunk of their morning in the reading room catching up on the gossip and scandals of the '90's.

"What?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. "More trouble with Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie?"

"You're a real smartass, you know that?"

"I'm just saying that I don't think we're going to find any useful information in Celebrity News."

"We're not going to find any useful information anywhere." Dean retorted. "We don't know where she died, we don't know when or how she died. Hell, I'm not even sure it was a she to begin with. It's like looking for a needle in a stack of needles."

Sam nodded; he had to admit that his brother had a point. The pieces just didn't add up. The temperature change and flying objects were definitely signs of a haunting and Dean had been seeing some sort of ghost.

But it didn't explain why only Dean could see it, or the hallucinations he had been experiencing. All of the information they had found so far had only led to more unanswerable questions.

He had been working overtime, pouring through every scrap and shred of lore to find out what was happening to his brother and coming up with nothing. Some vital part of this puzzle was missing, but neither he, nor his brother, could find out what it was.

"Besides," Dean continued, stretching to retrieve another tabloid, coughing at the cloud of dust that came with it. "Who says that these things don't have any good info? You'd be amazed at the stuff that gets published in here."

"I'm sure." Leaning back in his chair with a groan, Sam stretched already stiff muscles and ran a hand through his hair. He had been staring at the computer screen for too long and it had given him the beginnings of another headache. "So, have you seen it again?"

Dean looked away, from his pressing his lips together. "Yeah, I saw it last night at Bobby's when I got up to pee."

Sam straightened, frowning at his brother. "You did?"

"Yeah, it was just standing in the bathroom, staring at the mirror. It didn't even twitch when I turned the light on."

"Creepy."

"You're telling me."

"How did you get rid of it?"

Dean's answer was muffled by a cough and Sam looked over at his brother. He was surprised at the flush he saw creeping out of Dean's collar.

"What did you say?"

Dean rolled his eyes heavenward and cleared his throat. "I said, I didn't do anything, I went outside and 'borrowed' one of the trees out back."

"You didn't . . . . " Sam snorted, bemused. "No salt, no nothing? You can't be serious."

"Dude, it was three in the morning and I really had to pee. Ghostbusting wasn't exactly my top priority."

His amusement turning into a wicked grin, Sam shook his head. "You're a hunter, Dean. You're honestly telling me that you didn't even go for a weapon?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I guess I am." Dean's retort was short, irritated, and accompanied by a wadded up advertisement hurtling toward Sam's head. "So shut up about it already."

Sam's hand shot out, catching the projectile and pitching it back. "And this, whatever it is, didn't bother you?"

Dean shook his head. "It didn't even look at me when I walked by. When I got back inside, it was gone."

Frowning, Sam turned his attention back to the computer. "That's unusual. Why go through all the trouble of getting your attention earlier and then just ignore you like that?"

Picking up an actual newspaper, Dean shrugged. "I couldn't tell you . . ." he trailed off, eyes flying over whatever article was on the front page. "Huh," he said quietly, "How do you feel about Iowa, Sammy?"

Sam's eyebrows rose. "I thought we were already working on a case."

Dean shook his head. "This is more interesting."

"More interesting than your mystery ghost?"

"Oh yeah." The words were accompanied by an enthusiastic grin, the same grin that usually landed them in some sort of trouble. And Sam really didn't feel like going to jail this week.

"Dean, don't you think--"

"Trust me on this one, Sammy." Dean interrupted, tapping the newspaper with a finger. "I know what I'm talking about here."

"Fine. Whatever." Sam closed the website he had been looking at and rubbed his eyes. "What are we looking at?"

"A rash of wild animal attacks in Keokuk, Iowa, only nobody seems to remember seeing any sort of animal anywhere. Ever."

"You thinking werewolves?"

"Could be." The paper disappeared into one of the inner pockets of Dean's jacket. "If I remember right, Keokuk isn't that far from here, we can leave tomorrow morning and check things out before nightfall.

"Sounds like a good idea." Sam said, pinching the bridge of his nose, wincing against the stinging tingle that was building there. He could really go for an aspirin or two.

Or maybe the entire bottle.

Pausing, Dean frowned over the top of a stack of newspapers. "Hey," he said, "What's wrong with you?"

Sam shook his head, the burn behind his eyes intensifying. Suddenly, the lights were too bright and every sound was too loud.

"Hey. Hey!" Dean's voice sliced through the blood rushing in his ears. "What's going on? Talk to me."

"Dean," the rest of his plea was severed as agony exploded through his mind.

For Sam, waking visions were akin to having an electrified wire shoved into his brain via his eye sockets and scrambled around. This time was no different, and he couldn't help the pained yelp that escaped him.

Firm hands gripped at his shoulders. "Sam!" Dean.

He was aware of Dean beside him, making excuses and apologies for them both as his brother half-supported, half-dragged him out of the library and away from the prying eyes of the other patrons.

Sam alternately clutched at his head and clung to his big brother as the rooms dissolved into a whitewash of agony, there was the stomach dropping sensation of one world melting into the next. And then Sam opened his eyes and saw.

Drip.

The silence that engulfed him was thick and airless.

Sam forced himself to breathe, to ride the vision out instead of fighting against it, and the pain behind his eyes began to wane. In the distance, he could just make out the sound of rain pattering against the pavement, although where he stood was dry, shielded by the brick of the buildings that surrounded him.

Drip.

A dazzling, silent, burst of lightening illuminated gore-splattered stone and Sam felt his stomach clench as blood and death assaulted all of his senses. Crimson surrounded him, splashes and spatters marring every surface like dozens of macabre Rorschach tests.

Next to his feet, Sam saw a small hand, fingers curled into a stiff claw. In the middle of the palm was a pool of blood and a single black beetle, scrabbling for purchase on the pale skin.

The image burned itself into his brain and he knew he would be seeing it in his nightmares tonight.

Drip.

Taking a step back from the mangled body before him, his foot landed in a puddle of icy water and Sam frowned down at his bare feet.

This wasn't the way it normally was.

Visions were just that, him on the outside, watching the events unfold before him like a horrific, often brutal, movie. He wasn't supposed to be a part of them, he wasn't supposed to _feel _what was happening_._

Something was wrong.

A moment later, he became aware of the warm stickiness between his fingers. Raising his hands, Sam gaped at the half-congealed gore that coated his arms to the elbow, oozing in thick streams across his skin.

The beetle slipped back into the pool of blood and its struggles began anew, desperate to live although it was almost certainly doomed to die.

Chest heaving, all pretense of weathering the vision gone, he tried desperately to wipe the blood off on his jeans, leaving broad smears of crimson on the worn denim. But there was too much of it, crusted under his fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles.

He had done this.

Every instinct that had been instilled in him as a hunter fired, screaming at him to get away from this place.

_Drip._

He whirled around, looking for a way out and slipped, feet squelching in the sticky slickness of more blood. Trapped in the alley, in the vision, in his mind, there was nowhere for him to go.

In the alley way, the beetle kicked feebly once more and then stilled, finally losing it's valiantly fought battle. Its carapace was shiny and black against the crimson of the blood.

_Drip__._

The world dropped away from him, plummeting into scorching brightness and Sam fell with it. When the pain faded, he was staring into his brother's face. Dean's brow was furrowed, his features taunt with concern.

His eyes were the color of pitch, fathomless and cruel.

A demon.

A demon wearing his brother's face.

Panic turned his yell into a strangled gasp and Sam tried to scrabble away, fighting against the grip around his shoulders.

The Dean-thing's grip tightened around his arms and it leered at him, revealing bloodstained teeth and a blackened stump where the tongue should have been.

"Sam," it lisped macabre grin widening. "Sam."

"Hey! Sammy? Sam!"

A none-too-gentle shake made him open his eyes - right after he realized they were closed, and the illusion was gone. Sam was in a heap on the ground and Dean's eyes were green, just as they had always been. Blowing out a breath, Sam stopped struggling against his brother's grip.

Gasping, his hair falling damply in his face, Sam struggled to get himself under control, fighting the dizziness that was making his head swim and his stomach churn. He felt sick.

Oh crap, he was going to be sick.

"Easy, man, just breathe. Breathe. There you go. Breathe."

For a long moment, the only sounds in the parking lot were the distant chirp of crickets and Sam's labored panting.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. "That was a bad one," he said. It wasn't a question.

Mashing an unsteady hand against the receding pain behind his eyes, Sam leaned back against the side of the Impala and nodded.

"You need a bottle of water, or something?"

The request was strange enough to get his attention and Sam squinted at his brother. He couldn't remember the last time Dean had looked so uneasy.

In a bar, in pain, on a hunt, or donning some outlandish alias to get whatever he needed at the time, his brother always adapted to his surroundings with an ease that alternately turned Sam green with envy and scared the hell out of him.

But now, crouched over him on the pavement of the library parking lot, hands still on his shoulders, Dean seemed incongruous and Sam realized with a jolt that his big brother was scared.

He shook his head. "No water. I'm fine," he rasped, voice sounding weak, even to his own ears.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he muttered. "Real freaking fine."

Reaching up, Sam put a hand on Dean's forearm, receiving comfort from the touch, even as he pushed his brother away. "A couple aspirin and I'll be fine."

Sighing heavily, Dean sat back on his knees. "Yeah, right. So what did you see?"

_Next to his feet, there was a small hand, fingers curled into a stiff claw. In the middle of the palm was a pool of blood and a single black beetle, scrabbling for purchase on the pale skin._

"A lot of blood," he managed at last, clearing his throat. "And brick. Maybe an alleyway somewhere

"That's it?"

"This one was different, not like the others. It was . . ." Sam trailed off, struggling to find the right word to describe the horror he had just seen, had just experienced.

Chest heaving, all pretense of weathering the vision gone, he tried desperately to wipe the blood off on his jeans, leaving broad smears of crimson on the worn denim. But there was too much of it, crusted under his fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles.

He had done this.

"It was . . ."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean got to his feet, hauling Sam up by his shirt. "Different. I get it."

Sam reached back to steady himself against the Impala, nodding. "Yeah."

Guiding him around the car, Dean pulled open the passenger door and gave Sam one last assessing look.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

o()o


	14. Chapter 14

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Does anyone remember this story? I'm still out here! Sorry it's been so long, but I'm working hard on chapter 15 and 16 is darn near done. :) Thanks to everyone who takes a minute to remember this story and have a read. :)  
**Nifty fact for the Day:** The translation for what the head says to Dean is "Your soul stinks." "It stinks of death" "and dead men belong to me."  
**Special Thanks: **To youthere for keeping me on my toes and making sure that my Italian is correct. You rock, sweetie! :)_

o(14)o

When he had told Sam that this job would be 'interesting', this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

Hunkered against a giant pallet of ancient flour, Dean tried to take stock of the current situation while staying as far away as he could from the overgrown sasquatch-wannabe that was quickly reducing the flour mill into tinder.

The forecast wasn't good.

He swore quietly. He had known damn good and well that they'd been screwed from the moment they walked into the delapidated mill. Gun at the ready, the first thing he had done was slip on a vile mixture of dust, flour, and what was left of the latest victim.

The whatever-it-was had come from nowhere, grabbing Sam by the throat and tossing him across the room like a toy. Dean had emptied half of his clip into the creature before it reached him, driving a huge, hair-covered palm into his chest and sending him sailing against a far wall. The impact had knocked the air from his lungs and he hadn't been able to draw a proper breath since.

He had gone from hunter to hunted with startling speed.

Across the room, Sam's mouth was moving, but he couldn't make out the words over the blood pounding in his ears and the inhuman wails that seemed to reverberate through the mill and into his bones, making all his injuries throb mercilessly.

A wooden crate hurtled through the air and exploded against the wall behind him in a shower of splinters and dust.

"Son of a bitch!"

Dean raised an arm to protect his eyes, biting off a yelp as the movement sent agony flaring from his fingertips to shoulder.

Sam took the creature's tantrum as an opportunity to scrabble from behind his meager cover to the pallet of flour that Dean was crouched against.

"What the hell is that thing, Dean?" Sam hissed, drawing his knees up, shotgun held close to his chest.

"How am I supposed to know? You're the one with the paranormal rolodex in that freakish head of yours."

"It isn't the ghost is it?" Sam asked. "The one you've been seeing?"

Dean shot his brother an incredulous look. "Does it look like any kind of ghost you've ever seen, Sam?"

"Well," Sam furrowed a brow. "Whatever it is, it sure as hell isn't a werewolf."

"No kidding. We might as well be throwing Tic-Tacs at the thing for all the freaking good the silver does."

Nodding grimly, Sam sank further against the pallet, wincing as he did.

Dean frowned, looking hard at his brother. Sam's left eye was already swelling shut and the other wasn't far behind. His knuckles were split and bleeding and his hair was matted with streaks of blood-flour paste.

"Jesus, Sammy . . ." he rasped.

Sam waved a hand. "I'm fine, they're just scratches. What about you?"

Dean looked down at the blood that was leeching steadily between his fingers and grimaced. "Bastard got me good, I'm bleeding like a stuck pig."

Reaching to pry Dean's hand away from his side, Sam bit out a quiet curse.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Why, I didn't even know you knew that word."

"You should." Sam muttered back. "You're the one that taught it to me." He shot a cagey look around the mill. "We've got to get out of here. You need help."

A large chunk of wood glanced off Dean's injured shoulder and he turned a groan into a growl, fighting the sparks that were edging his vision. "Great plan, got any ideas on how to do that? We don't even know what we're up against."

"We could run."

"And what? Hope it doesn't notice us sneaking out the front door?"

Sam's jaw tightened. "Do you have a better idea?"

A shadow fell over them, and Dean froze, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. The smell was overpowering, the musty reek of damp fur and under it, the fetid smell of feral animal and rotting meat.

Sam clutched at his shotgun, trying to fold his long limbs to make himself as small as possible, a habit left over from childhood, as though he were still ten and short for his age instead of the gargantuan freak that he was now. If they hadn't been about to be torn into beef jerky by Bigfoot, Dean might have been amused.

After an endless second the shadow lumbered on and several feet away there was the sound of more splintering wood and more inhuman wailing. It was pissed, no doubt.

But only half as pissed as Dean was.

Indignation flooded him, replacing his previous pain. "I swear," he muttered, "I'm going to kill that thing until it dies from it."

Sam huffed, but the sound came out more like an unsteady wheeze. "What are you going to do, bleed on it?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but another projectile sailed overhead, bouncing off the wall of flour and landing in his lap.

Mottled and gray against the stained denim of his jeans, sat a head, the eyes staring blindly up at him. Most of the flesh on the right side of its face was missing, revealing glistening bone beneath. There was no mistaking the teeth marks around where its lips and nose should have been.

Sam swore, recoiling, his face twisted in disgust.

Dean's stomach lurched and he floundered backwards, sending the head spinning across the dusty floor. It slowed to a stop, facing him and the eyes that were cloudy and dull just a moment ago were now infinite and black.

The severed head grinned with what was left of shredded lips, revealing a blackened stump where the tongue should have been, its eyes rolled up to look at him.

"_La tua anima puzza_, Dean," it hissed, the words rattling through shredded vocal cords.

He didn't understand the words, but they sent a shudder through him, making the hairs on the back of his neck and hands stand on end.

All around them silence fell, heavy enough to suffocate.

"Hey," Sam hissed, "it stopped, maybe we can get out now before it starts up again."

Dean couldn't answer. The blackness of the demon's eyes filled his vision, drawing him into their depths, holding him captive.

"_Puzza come un morto."_

"Dean! What's going on? Talk to me."

He couldn't force air into his lungs, couldn't draw a breath to shout for help. All he could do was stare, helpless, into the reflection of the pit.

"Dean!"

The head gave a thick, gurgling chortle, "_ed i morti appartengono a me_."

o()o

_His daddy's eyes were wide and afraid and he was shouting, but Dean couldn't hear what he was saying over the roar of the fire. He stared at the dancing flames, terrified and awestruck all at once. _

_This wasn't fire like his birthday candles or the fire Daddy cooked over when they went camping. This fire was alive, breathing and eating everything in its path. He could hear it, crackling and groaning and if he looked hard enough, he could see faces in the flickering orange. Mouths open in silent screams, eyes melting into different, distorted faces._

_Finally, Daddy's words reached him over the din. "Now Dean, Go!"_

_Jolted from his daze, he could see the black smoke filling the room and hear little Sammy's choking screams. He had to get out!_

_The last thing he saw before he burst out of the room, was his Mommy, eyes wide like a doll's, red smeared on her tummy, staring at him from the ceiling._

o()o

He awoke shivering and disoriented, his hair and clothing plastered to his body.

Wet sand clung to his naked skin and jeans in a layer of chilly grit and the tang of saltwater stung his eyes and nose.

All around him was the rush of water. The sand was white beneath his bare feet, bleached to the color of bone by moonlight and the ocean was the color of tar, churning thickly. Something about the area seemed familiar, eerily so.

It wasn't a sensation he liked.

Dean rolled onto his side, agony igniting through his muscles and straight into the bone. He bit down hard against it and pushed himself to his feet, hand pressed against his ribs, where the hurt was the worst.

Straightening gingerly, he drew his hand away from his side and grimaced at the crimson coating his fingertips. He dimly remembered being hurt, but the memory was blurry, unreachable in his mind.

Before he could dwell on it further, there was a flutter of movement and something plummeted out of the sky, landing at Dean's feet with a muted thump.

Squatting, he pressed his fist against his mouth. "Poor little guy," he murmured.

It might have been a sparrow once, but the feathers were matted and sparse, beak broken. The fallen bird twitched once, feebly flexing shattered wings and then was still.

He barely had time to jerk out of the way when a second bird fell. Off balance, he pinwheeled for a moment and then fell backwards in the sand.

The third landed behind him. A forth, still clinging to life, flopped helplessly over his splayed fingers. He jerked away from it, his blood suddenly turning to ice water.

"Oh, God."

Small bodies, twisted and broken, glanced off his shoulders and back. Their beaks and stiffening claws nicked his skin like thousands of minute razor blades. The clean tang of the ocean was quickly replaced with the reek of decay.

Chest heaving, he hunkered under the siege of the dead and dying. The patter of falling bodies was suddenly occluded by the sound of a thousand whispering voices and Dean found himself face to face with black-ringed eyes and a pale, bloodied face.

He was fast, scuttling away from the apparition like a crab, but the ghost was faster, a skeletal hand shooting out and closing icy fingers around his wrist.

The whispers turned into an earsplitting roar, echoing inside his skull and adrenaline flooded his system. He tried to wrench away, but the icy grip around his arm was unnaturally strong. Darkness began to seep into his vision, occluding the silver-gray scenery, drawing him into it, forcing him into the endless black.

Not happening.

With a roar, he threw himself to one side, breaking the ghost's grasp and landing with a jarring thud on the sand. The darkness had obscured his vision now, but he could still sense someone — some _thing_ —standing over him. The ghost.

Adrenaline flooded his system. In a heartbeat he was surging to his feet, vaguely aware of the pain in his side. The apparition took a single step toward him and the hunter came up fighting for his life.

o()o


	15. Chapter 15

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Many thanks for all who have taken the time to review, as well as my amazing betas Amarintha and Archerlove. If you haven't read their stories (Someday and Sins of the Past, respectively), go and do it. Right now. Now! Go! :D_

_**Nifty Fact for the Day:** Jangelaphobia is the fear of Jell-O and apparently is more common that most people think. Huh._

o(15)o

Sam stood in front of a doctor, scratching absently at fresh bandages, listening to the older man and trying to make sense of what he was being told. He was so damn tired.

"So you'll want to keep those wounds clean and dry and . . ."

"What about my brother?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow and flipped through the second chart in his hands. "There are breathing exercises for the lung that had collapsed. He'll need to keep his arm in a sling for at least a month to keep it stabilized. That was one of the worst dislocations I've ever seen and I don't want to chance it slipping back out. The broken ribs will just take time to heal, and the cuts and bruises. . ."

The words washed over Sam in a meaningless tide and he shook his head. "But is he _okay_?"

Eyes creasing as he smiled, the doctor nodded. "He's not going to like it for a while, but he'll live."

"We can go home then?"

"I'd like to keep you both overnight for observation, just to be safe. That was some car accident you boys were in."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, it was."

"By the way, that was a nice Impala you boys pulled up to the ER in. '67 Chevy, right?" Sam fumbled and the doctor's smile turned wry. "You know, with a little work I'll bet she could be cherry."

Sam stammered, trying to force a suitable lie from his painkiller-numbed lie, quickly forgot the reason as the room exploded into motion and sound, a violent flurry of wires and plastic tubing.

Dean arched off of the emergency room bed, eyes wide and unseeing. His chest heaved with each ragged breath and sweat beaded along his hairline and upper lip.

The doctor was at the bedside in an instant. "We need some help in here!" he yelled. "I need two milligrams of Ativan, stat!"

Half a dozen scrub-clad people rushed into the room, craning their necks to see the spectacle, creating a barrier around Dean. One of the nurses got too close to a flailing fist and then staggered backward, her hand raised to her face.

The hospital staff took a collective step back and Sam took the opportunity to shove his way to his brother's side.

"What's going on?"

The doctor ignored him. "Where the hell is that Ativan?"

Another nurse with a syringe pushed by Sam, hurrying to the doctor's side. "Here. I'm here."

Dean sucked in a breath, the sound like broken glass, and screamed. Outraged, frightened, it was a sound that Sam had never heard from his brother before. Fear, cold and greasy, was suddenly leaching through his veins instead of blood.

"What are you waiting for?" The doctor snapped, catching Dean's wrists and forcing them to his sides. "Stick him already."

With a gesture that was more suited to a horror movie than a hospital, the nurse jabbed the needle into Dean's thigh. His brother yelped and then stilled almost at once, fisted hands going slack, frantic breathing becoming slower and more even.

"What happened?" Sam demanded.

"I'm not sure, maybe a seizure of some sort." The doctor barely spared him a glance, focused instead on the machines that were monitoring Dean. "Dean, can you hear me?"

Dean's eyes slit, and Sam staggered backward, choking on a gasp. Between ashen lids and dark lashes, malicious blackness shone up at him.

"Stay away from him!" Grabbing the doctor's wrist, Sam wrenched the older man away from the thing that looked like his brother.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't touch him!" Sam could hear his voice raising, alarmed. The throng of medical personnel took another step backwards and someone called for security.

The doctor held up his free hand, fingers splayed. "Sam, I'm a doctor," he said, his tone deliberately calm, as if he were speaking to some wild animal. "I'm not going to hurt him."

The room was starting to spin and Sam put a hand to his head. "You don't understand . . ."

"Just take it easy, son. Everything's okay."

Sam didn't bother to reply, instead searching desperately for something to defend himself with. There. A pretty, plump, nurse clad in blue scrubs was standing at the opposite side of the bed and around her neck was a delicate golden crucifix.

Reaching out, he closed a fist around the cross, wincing sympathetically as the chain snapped and the nurse squeaked in pain. Weapon in hand, he pressed his palm against Dean's chest, an exorcism on his lips, waiting for the reek of sulfur and the aggrieved shrieks that only the damned seemed to be able to manage.

But Dean only yelped, swatting weakly at his hand. Sam stared down at his brother, head swimming. It was impossible. Something had to be there. He had seen the demon's eyes, glaring balefully up at him.

Hadn't he?

"Get him out of here." The doctor's voice was firm and strong hands closed around Sam's upper arms, urging him away from his brother.

"No! I need to stay." Struggling out of the security guard's grasp, he held up his hands placatingly. "I'm sorry. I think . . ." _I'm losing my mind _his brain supplied grimly. "I think my blood sugar is low. I just need to get something to eat."

It was a lame lie at best, but it was the only thing he could come up with. The doctor scowled at him, and Sam turned his attention to the nurse, offering her an earnest, pleading look, even as he slipped her crucifix into his pocket. "I'm really sorry. It won't happen again, I promise."

"S'm?" the word was slurred and hoarse, Dean's voice little more than a raw croak.

Sam met the doctor's gaze and held it, "Please, he's my brother. Let me stay."

"Fine." At last, the doctor turned away from him, leaning over the hospital bed his fingers probing Dean's side. Dean swore and shied away from the touch and the doctor pressed his lips together.

"Can you hear me, Dean?"

"Whr's S'm?"

"He's right here. He's fine. Do you know where you are?"

Dean nodded slowly. "H'sp'tl." he rasped, struggling to push himself up on one elbow, his other arm cradled tightly against his side.

"Do you know how you got here?"

Sam could feel his brother's gaze on him, questioning, but didn't look up. He was afraid that instead of Dean, there would be some black-eyed abomination sitting in the bed, leering at him through his brother's features.

He found his hand in the pocket of his jacket, fingers skimming over the beveled edges of the crucifix hidden there.

"B'r fight?" Dean inquired, sounding uncertain.

"What was that?" Brow furrowed, the doctor was leaning closer now, prying Dean's eyelids open, checking each eye with a penlight.

Each _green _eye. Unfocused and over-bright, they were still unmistakably Dean's. Sam scrubbed an unsteady hand over his face. If only the damn room would stop spinning.

"Do you remember the _accident_, Dean?" he prompted, voice muffled by his palm.

"Accid'nt." Dean nodded again, squirming away from the doctor, rubbing at his eyes. "Yeah. Alm'st hit a deer; r'n off th' road."

Sam breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, a tiny bit of the tension seeping from his shoulders. The car accident was one of a handful of tales that they used to ensure that their stories always matched.

Bar fight, Car Accident, Bad Fall, Mobbed by Swedish supermodels (Dean's sole contribution to the cause): each account had been carefully contrived and practiced until it was a perfect imitation of the truth. Dean remembering the story did more to ease Sam's mind than any test the hospital could provide.

The doctor chuffed, shaking his head. "Some accident," he muttered, fingers still probing Dean's face and head. "Did you get a good look at the deer?"

"Not as good as the look I got of the d'mn ditch. Th'nk she had a baby with her."

Sam had to admit to himself, with a sort of begrudging jealousy, that his big brother really was slick. Even doped to the gills with pain medication, Dean could still spin a yarn so real that you couldn't help but believe it.

Another wave of dizziness washed over him, and he gripped the bedrail. His knees were beginning to feel shaky.

"Sam?"

The next thing he knew, _his_ eyelids were being pried open and the penlight was glaring into his eyes. The doctor was on tip-toe, stretching to examine him and Sam resisted the urge to bat the light away.

"I'm fine," he said, taking a step backward.

The doctor pointed to one of the plastic chairs next to the bed. "Sit."

"Really, Doctor, there's no need--"

"_Sit_."

There was no disobeying that tone of voice. Sam sank into the chair with a stifled groan, his battered body protesting the movement. Once he was off his feet the room stilled and he began to feel marginally better.

"Follow my finger with your eyes. Now look up, look down. Good. Name as many animals as you can that begin with the letter H."

_Hellhound, Havsrå, Hone-onna, Haugbui, the list goes on forever._

"Uh . . . Horse, hippo . . . housefly? "

The impromptu exam was cut short by a strident beeping. The doctor reached down and unclipped a pager from his belt. Looking at the screen, he stilled, and then swore quietly.

"Looks important." Sam ventured, praying that he was right.

The doctor's gaze flicked between his pager and Sam, his frown deepening.

"I'll be back in two hours to check on you both," he said, his tone stern. "There's a vending machine down the hall. Be sure to get yourself something with sugar and then get some rest."

Once it was just the two of them in the room, Sam sighed, burying his head in his hands. He was sore and exhausted and found himself wishing, irrationally, for his father.

"Sammy?"

"What the hell just happened, Dean?" he asked, not quite managing to keep his tone level.

Dean frowned. "What?"

The impulse to pull the cross from his pocket and brandish again shot through Sam once, and then a second time his body wracking with the effort to suppress it. "Never mind," he mumbled instead, clenching his fist around the talisman. "How're you feeling?"

Groaning, Dean shifted awkwardly, mashing the pillows behind him. "Like I just got run down by a big, hairy, truck," he paused, struggling to catch his breath, skin going pale. "I don't suppose the Abominable Douchebag keeled over of a heart attack on our way out?"

Sam shook his head, eyes still glued to the patterned carpet. "It's still alive." When he finally looked up, his brother was staring past him out the window.

"Yeah," said Dean, jaw tight.

"Yeah."

"How long are we stuck here?"

"Until tomorrow afternoon. Bobby said he'll come and get us as soon as we're discharged."

"Hunt gone bad and a night at the hospital." After a long minute, Dean sighed and gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Well, hey, at least there's Jell-o."

"You hate Jell-o."

"Yeah, but you don't," said Dean with a crooked smile, nudging the cup of colorful jigglyness toward Sam. "Why was the doctor checking you out before? Everything okay?"

Nodding, Sam reached to take the gelatin. "I'm fine."

Dean's eyes narrowed and he hooked a finger, pulling the cup back out of Sam's grasp. "Bull."

"It's nothing, I just got a little dizzy."

"Sam, I'm too damn tired and sore to beat the truth out of you tonight."

The tone was classic big brother, weary and worried and threatening all at once. It was comforting.

Stretching with a wince, Sam snatched the Jell-o out of his Dean's hand and offered his big brother an honest attempt at a smile. "So don't."

Scoffing, Dean held up his spoon, keeping it well out of Sam's reach. "You don't get this until you tell me what's going on with you."

This time, the smile that pulled at Sam's mouth was unbidden and genuine. Pursing his lips, he sucked a wobbly cube straight out of the bowl and chewed triumphantly. It was a stunt he hadn't pulled since he was a kid, and his grin widened as it had the desired effect on his big brother.

"Augh!" Dean's cry was hoarse, but no less affronted. "You're disgusting, man, you know that?"

Sam only chuckled in reply, slurping another square.

o()o


	16. Chapter 16

o()o

_**Author's Note: **This chapter is ridiculously short, but I'm quite pleased with the way it turned out. This chapter is dedicated to everyone out there in PCLand who thinks that Valentines Day just plain sucks. I'm totally with you, guys, and plan to spend the day with a tub of Haagen Das and Supernatural on the DVD player.  
__**Nifty Fact for the Day: **Just in case you didn't know, they're remaking Friday the 13th . . . in the lead our very own (and now single I hear single) Jared Padalecki. I know I'll be front row in theaters. :) You?_

o(16)o

He couldn't sleep.

It wasn't an unusual thing for him. Sleepless nights were just a part of life when you were an old coot. And when you were an old _evil-hunting_ coot? Well, it was even worse.

Stepping out of the house, he settled on the front stairs, grunting quietly as his knees cracked like gunshots.

The night was warm and the air smelled like motor oil and rusted metal, scents that he had long come to associate with home. Under them, there was the subtle odor of coming rain. Crickets chirped, hidden amongst the piles of scrap cars, and a single bat swooped through the naked glow of the porch light, hunting for its late-night meal.

The moon was almost full, and bright enough to read by, bathing everything in silver. A gentle breeze blew; nudging pieces of scrap metal in the distance and making them creak quietly. It mingled with the other sounds, creating a sort of summertime lullaby.

Bobby twisted the cap off of the bottle of beer he had brought out with him and whistled, the sound carrying in the quiet night.

There was an unmistakable jingle of chain, and Rumsfeld unmolded himself from the darkness, padding up to the stairs. Panting quietly, the dog laid his massive head in Bobby's lap, rolling dark eyes to look up at him.

"You're about half useless," he muttered without any real animosity, scratching behind a silky, floppy ear. "I might as well have guppies for all the good you do as a guard dog."

Rumsfeld chuffed, sounding offended, and then turned over, all four legs sticking into the air, belly bared for a rub.

Bobby snorted and took a pull from his bottle. Sitting there on his porch steps, dog next to him and beer in hand, Bobby could almost pretend that he was any normal feller after a regular day of work.

Just another old coot out of millions.

"I'm telling you, Mutt . . ."

Glancing down, he froze mid-sentence and then sighed, his illusion of a conventional life vanishing like smoke.

There, on the step between his boots, was an errant splatter of blood, maybe Sam's, but more likely Dean's. It wasn't much, but the sight of it still made his chest constrict.

Those boys had too goddamn much potential to live like they did. They deserved to have dreams and goals and, heaven forbid, friends. They deserved to have an actual home and a chance to make something of themselves. They deserved to be protected against the true evils of the world, to be kept safe.

But they had been bred into a life of blood and death and darkness, and the prospect of those everyday things was long, long gone.

The thought sent a familiar, bitter, twinge through him and he washed it down with another swallow of beer.

John Winchester had been a fierce hunter and a genius, but when it came to his young sons? Well, he loved them more than anything in the world, but he was dumb as a rock when it came to being a father and providing a normal life for them. It was one of the many things that he and John could never seem to agree to disagree on.

Not that Bobby knew much more about parenthood, but he managed to get by, playing surrogate father to Sam and Dean when John was too preoccupied with a hunt to do the job.

Over time, he had found the role simple enough to fill and, surprisingly, he had come to enjoy it. The boys breathed life into a place in him that was all too often a tomb for silent memories and longing reminiscences of a better time. They made the house feel less empty and a little more like it had felt while Addy was still alive.

Rumsfeld whined imploringly and Bobby resumed scratching.

"Yeah, you're right," he murmured. "No sense in dwelling in the past."

The dog's only reply the swish of his tail across the porch, stirring up puffs of dust.

Giving Rumsfeld one last pat and finishing his beer in a couple long swallows, Bobby got to his feet. He waited until his dog melted back into the darkness before turning to go back inside.

Slipping from room to room and down the hallway, expertly aware of where every stick of furniture and stack of books were, he made his way to the back bedroom, to check on the boys.

He had brought them both home from the hospital today, looking more like hamburger than hunters.

Dean had slept the entire way back to the house, waking up long enough to hobble from the car to the couch, his face taunt and pale. He hadn't even managed to kick off his boots before slipping back to sleep.

Sam had sunk into Bobby's tattered recliner and immediately reached for a book. He had made it almost three pages in before drifting off, his body crying for rest as desperately as his brothers.

Bobby had spent the day keeping quietly in the background, changing bandages, fixing meals and telling himself that he was just puttering around the house, and certainly not acting like an old mother head.

Now, John's oldest was sprawled across one of the spare beds in a position that only a kid like that could be comfortable in, his big toe poking through a hole in his sock. Dean's breathing was slow and even and the worry lines that creased his eyes and brow during the day were gone, smoothed out by the sandman's hand.

In all the years Bobby had known John and his sons, he couldn't remember a time when those lines weren't a part of Dean's countenance. The kid tried, Bobby knew he really did, but there weren't enough sarcastic jokes and cocksure grins in the world to hide the burdens that Dean had long ago chosen to bear alone.

Although he wasn't alone anymore.

He would bite off his tongue before he admitted it, but Bobby had been relieved when Sam had started back hunting.

He knew it was wrong, being thankful for the destruction of a kid's hopes, but the wounded, lost look in Dean's eyes while Sam had been away had damn near broken his heart. When Sam had lost everything that had ever mattered to him, it had returned the only thing that had ever mattered to Dean.

The second bed was still neatly made, empty; the youngest Winchester instead was slumped over the small desk in the corner, his head cradled on folded arms.

The polar opposite of his brother, Sam's fiery temper was fueled by a passionate, sympathetic, heart. And no matter how much he tried not to, Sam wore that heart on his sleeve.

At twelve, he had read at a sixteen year old reading level, and, if you'd asked him, lot of the weird stuff he knew didn't have much application in daily life. It hadn't changed the fact that he was short for his age. It didn't change that he was a freak and his family was just as freaky. It didn't change that all he wanted to do was play kickball and make friends, just like all the other kids.

The craving for a normal life had made him an outcast in his own family and young Sammy had spent most of his life in a vicious tug-of-war between the existence that he had and the life that he longed for.

Now, time and turned him into a man, and hard luck had turned him into a damn good hunter. But, sometimes, Bobby could see the geeky, impressionable kid staring out of Sam's eyes, caught between worlds, still longing for a stable, secure life.

It was a dream that most hunters never even attempted, let alone lived to realize, but Bobby still hoped that someday Sam would have all that he wanted in the world.

And he prayed that, if it did happen, there would be a little room in that life for Dean too.

Moving quietly into the bedroom, he placed a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. "You leave a puddle of drool on that book, boy, and I'm making you replace it."

Sam's eyes snapped open, instantly alert and he patted the younger man's back. "It's just me, get up and get to bed now."

Snuffling, Sam wiped at his mouth, and Bobby opted not to tease him about the thin line of slobber there. "Can't sleep."

"Looks like you were doing a pretty good job a minute ago."

Sam shook his head. "Gotta find this thing."

"You can start fresh tomorrow. It's not like you're going to be taking it on anytime soon anyways."

Jamming his palms into his eyes and rubbing, Sam shook his head. "We can't wait around for it to kill someone else. We have to stop it."

"Sam, that mill's been dead quiet since you boys left." Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Bobby didn't let him finish. "Listen, how about I call a friend in the area tomorrow and have them check it out for you?"

"We don't even know what this thing is yet; we can't ask someone else to just go in there blind."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Don't you worry about that, this guy's good, he won't go and do anything stupid.

Nodding slowly, Sam finally got to his feet and hobbled to his bed. "Okay." Sighing deeply, he curled around one of the pillows. "Thanks Bobby."

"Yeah, Yeah. Get some rest."

"Yeah." Sam muttered, already drifting back to sleep.

Closing the book, Bobby took the chair that Sam had just vacated, and leaned back, propping his legs up and watching over both his boys as they slept.

o()o


	17. Chapter 17

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I'm back! I passed my boards and am now official! Whoo! Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this story. I'm so unbelievably grateful to have such awesome readers. :) Thanks also to my amazing beta Amarintha, who keeps this project alive even when i'm ready to take it out back and shoot it. LoL!_

_**Nifty Fact of the day: **No off the rack stuff for our guys, a large chunk of the Supernatural wardrobe has to be custom made. The reason? Jared Padalecki's height. Sam's such a diva. :)_

o(17)o

"Man, you're a cheating bastard."

Sam huffed, spinning the wheel of the controller. "It's Pong, Dean. I'm pretty sure there's no way to cheat."

"With those Geekboy powers of yours, you'd find a way." A second controller sat in Dean's lap, secured between his knees. "I never underestimate the power of the Dork side, Sammy."

"Dark side," Sam corrected absently.

"Not with you it isn't." Dean shifted with a wince, holding his injured arm tightly against his body and using his free hand and knees to work his controller. "I think I deserve a handicap for playing wounded like this."

The screen door banged open and Bobby chuckled as he walked into the house, arms full of grocery bags. "Oh, you're handicapped all right."

"Hey!"

Sam grinned, never taking his eyes from the screen. "Hey, Bobby."

Pausing, the older man looked at the television and then snorted. "Where the hell did you find that ancient thing?"

Sam leaned forward, the tip of his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth. "Under a stack of books in the spare bedroom."

"And about two feet of dust I'm sure."

"That's about right." Dean said and glanced away from the screen. "Need help with anything, Bobby?"

Bobby shot him an amused glance. "What exactly is it you're going to help me with, boy? The condition you're in, you're about as useful as teats on a bull."

The game console beeped is displeasure with Dean's inattentiveness and Sam gave a triumphant whoop. "Looks like I win."

"Only because you cheat."

o()o

Hand braced against the wall for support, Sam shuffled down the hallway toward the bathroom.

It was slow going, his entire body protesting the movement, but he didn't have much further. He had painstakingly removed all his bandages, exposing skin that was that was better suited to a butcher shop than a human being. The process had taken the better part of an hour.

He desperately needed a shower, but the soap burned like acid in the gashes and scrapes that covered his body. He would have to settle for just standing under the water, gritting his teeth as the spray assaulted him like thousands of searing needles. Again. At this rate, they wouldn't need weapons to hunt; his B.O. alone would be enough to send the most dangerous creature fleeing with its nose plugged.

The image of some terrifying beast running away from him and his green cloud of odiferous funk was enough to make Sam chuckle.

Passing by Bobby's guest room, he peeked in to check on his brother. Dean had disappeared into the back room an hour ago for a nap and, judging from how quiet the place had been, was still sleeping.

Sam paused, eyebrows raising.

Or not.

A cup of coffee beside him, his bound arm resting awkwardly on the bedside table, Dean was awake, and writing.

Leaning against the doorframe, unnoticed, Sam watched as the simple bic pen Dean held flew over the paper.

His brother wasn't in any better shape than he was, bloodied and bruised, the pain he was in as unmaskable as Sam's own. But instead of the grimace that had marred Dean's features for the past several days, his brother was immersed in whatever he was writing, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in classic Dean-concentration face.

"Hey," Sam said at last.

Dean didn't look up, but the pen in his hand halted. "Hey, Sammy."

"I thought you were sleeping."

"Tried." Dean gave a one-shouldered shrug, pen once again in motion. "Couldn't."

Pushing off the doorframe, Sam came a little closer. "What are you doing?"

"Whale hunting."

He ignored the retort, leaning over Dean's shoulder to get a look at what was on the desk.

"Don't--" Dean made to cover his work, but Sam was faster, catching a glimpse of gray leather and his brother's slanted, spiky, handwriting.

"A journal?" he asked quietly.

Dean looked away, shutting the book and pushing it aside. "Yeah."

"Like Dad's?"

"Somebody's got to keep track of the crazy crap we run into." Dean sighed, pressing his lips together. "Writing in Dad's, I don't know; it just didn't seem right."

Sam blinked at his brother, nonplussed and Dean nudged at his shoulder.

"Stop looking at me like that."

Shaking his head, Sam pulled up a chair, careful of his brother's still-healing arm. "Can I see?"

"What do you want to see for? It's just a book." Dean gestured around the room. "There are tons of them here, pick another one."

"They aren't a hunting journal."

"Some might be," Dean replied, quirking an eyebrow.

Sam sighed, feeling very much like the little brother wheedling to be let in on a tantalizing secret. "Dean, come on, just let me see."

Dean snorted, sliding the book across the desk into Sam's hands. "Whatever. Here."

Sam opened the leather bound cover and stared. It was beautiful.

Their father's journal had been an obsessive's jumble with notes scribbled in the margins and pages stained with dirt and blood.

The book before him was clean and organized, newspaper clippings expertly mingling with a surprisingly neat version of his brother's handwriting.

Sam flipped the pages. It was like watching his life pass before his eyes, detailed notes on the Shtriga, various spirits they had encountered, vampires, shapeshifters: everything they'd faced since their dad had first had disappeared.

"How long have you been working on this?"

Dean gave another one-shouldered shrug, wincing at the movement. "A little while now."

The last page, unfinished, was headed with the word DRACAE. Under it were a couple of newspaper clippings and the map they had used to track the creature.

"Dean, this is amazing," he murmured, tracing the last line of the book with his finger. In his wildest dreams, Sam never would have imagined that his restless, reckless brother would have had the patience to create something like this.

"It's not that big of a deal, Sam. Don't get all girly on me."

"But--"

Grabbing the book from under Sam's hands, Dean closed it and set it aside. "Seriously, dude, it's just something to occupy the time. I'm losing my freaking mind cooped up in here."

"It's only been three days, Dean." Sam said absently, still gazing at the journal. He wanted to pore over every word in that book, to study it like he had his fathers; until it was so familiar it could have been a part of him. More than anything else, he found that he wanted glimpse the world through his older brother's eyes.

Sam knew Dean better than anyone else, could read his moods as easily as he could any book he picked up, but sometimes it seemed as though his brother were a stranger, true emotions carefully hidden away, genuine thoughts concealed with a cocky smile or quick-witted jibe.

"So," Dean's voice was deliberately loud, shaking Sam from his thoughts, "Did we ever find out anything about the mill?"

Forcing his gaze away from the gray leather under Dean's arm, Sam grimaced. "Bobby's contact called this morning, he said that the place was a slaughter house."

"Well, we knew that already, Sammy."

"No, you don't understand. They found the . . . whatever it was . . . torn to pieces."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "You're serious?"

"Apparently it was more," pausing, Sam searched for the right way to convey what he'd been told, "mush than monster. At least that's what Bobby said."

"Yikes."

"Yeah."

"So what do you think happened? I mean, things like that don't usually explode as far as I know."

"I don't have a clue," Sam said, shaking his head. "Maybe another hunter got to it after we left?"

"Who knows," Dean said. "It's dead and that's all that matters to me."

"You don't want to know what happened?" Sam's mind was already in overdrive, mulling over what could have taken place in that abandoned mill. Going off of what Bobby had said, there was no way a hunter could have caused that kind of carnage.

"Dude," Dean coughed. "You smell like a giant walking armpit."

Sam huffed. "Oh, and you're so much better."

"I don't know what you're talking about, I smell like roses." Dean paused, wrinkling his nose. "Seriously, you need a shower."

"Well, that's where I was headed."

Dean raised his good arm and pointed toward the bathroom. "Go. Now, before my nose hairs melt."

o()o

Watching his brother limp out of the bedroom, grumbling, Dean waited until he heard the unmistakable sound of Bobby's shower creaking to life before moving the journal aside and opening the book it had been hiding.

Frowning, Dean paged through the tome, research sucked. It sucked even more when you had forgone all pain medication in hopes of having a clearer head. All that had accomplished for Dean was to make him foggy with the pain instead of the pleasant haze the meds induced.

Sighing, he found the place he had marked, scowling when he realized he was as stuck now as he had been before, half-certain that voco vos meum meant 'screw you, we're tired of doing this, make up your own stupid translation'.

It was times like this when he could really use Sam's geekboy powers.

Too bad.

He was pretty sure his little brother wouldn't approve of what he was planning to do.

o()o


	18. Chapter 18

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Holy shotgun sliging brothers batman! It's another chapter and it hasn't been six months. I was amazed at how many people stuck Obsideo on their alert list this time around. If only I could get your lurktastic readers to review! LoL!_

_**Nifty Fact for the day:** __Believe it or not, Dean's ritual, in part, is based on honest to goodness stuff I scrounged up doing research for this story. I probably wouldn't try it at home however . . . you might end up a bunch of broccoli. :)_

_**Ridiculously Long Translation of the Chapter:** The incantation that Dean uses is in Latin and translates:  
Animae de mortua, voco vos meum__ (Spirit of the dead, I call you to me)  
_Arcesso vos ex obscurum _(I summon you out of darkness)  
_Arcesso vos transmaritanus de silenti _(I summon you beyond the seas of silence)  
_Acresso vos harenae de aveus_ (I summon you through the sands of time)  
Venio meum _(Come to me)  


o(18)o

Dean had done a lot of dumb things over the course of his life.

In fact, he had done enough of stupid things to be able to arrange them into categories. Neat little groupings to help organize his less-than-genius actions.

There was a category for leaping blindly into danger (his favorite), one for having too much to drink and doing something he regretted the following day, one for having too much to drink and doing _someone_ he regretted he following day (by far the worst), one for stupid curiosities that had led to explosions, one for simple lack of common sense, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

But there was no category for what he was doing now. As far as stupid things went, he was pretty sure it was going to break the mold.

It's blinds drawn, doors locked and bolted, the house was silent, only the occasional grumble of thunder outside breaking the airless hush, a portent of the summer storm to come.

Errant crystals of salt crunched under Dean's boots as he stood in the middle of Bobby's dining room, surveying his handiwork.

Light from a single candle created flickering shadows on the walls and glinted off of the circle of rock salt that now graced the center of the floor. Surrounding the circle were dozens of intricate symbols, all inscribed in white chalk.

They had taken him over an hour to draw out, and while he wouldn't be illustrating the cover of a Led Zeppelin album anytime soon, the characters looked solid and accurate.

At his feet a heavy, leather-bound book displayed innards of ancient, yellowing, pages and faded ink.

To his left, the lone candle created a tiny pool of light that seemed far too fragile when compared to the darkness that surrounded it. To his right sat an earthenware bowl full of green and graying plants.

Kneeling in front of the book with a wince, Dean reached into his back pocket, and pulled out several sheets of crumpled notebook paper. He tried, unsuccessfully, to smooth them out before setting them down beside the larger tome.

His scribbled handwriting looked out of place next to the fastidious calligraphy, as out of place as he felt performing a ritual like this. Spells and incantations were Sammy's specialty and Dean would have happily traded all this mystical crap for one sawed-off loaded with rock salt.

The sawed-off wouldn't get him the answers he wanted though.

He didn't like to think of that night by the river and the fractured half-memories, half-hallucinations that had come along with it, but something had happened there. It had taken a lot of late-night research, a lot little white lies and a handful of real whoppers, but using information that neither Sam nor Bobby knew, he had puzzled together what neither of them could.

It had a hundred names in a hundred different languages, but they all boiled down to one simple, grim, meaning.

_Hitchhiker._

Closing his eyes, Dean blew out a breath. Ready or not, and there was precious little time before Sam and Bobby returned from their errands in town.

Holding his notes flat with one hand, his injured arm still secured to his side, Dean took a deep breath began to read.

_"Phasma de mortua, voco vos meum" _

The Latin that came so easily to his brother felt heavy on his tongue, and he took care with each word. It wasn't likely that a mispronunciation would turn him into a bunch of broccoli, but he wasn't about to take any chances.

In his hunt to translate this ritual, he had unearthed a startling number of instances in which it had gone wrong. The results ranged from merely ugly, to what was left the unlucky conjurer being enough to fill a few zip-lock baggies.

"_Arcesso vos ex obscurum." _

He dipped a hand into the bowl, crushing Wormwood leaves and fragrant Amaranth buds between his fingertips. It was a pleasant smell, one that might have made a nice aftershave.

Well, if it weren't designed to raise the dead.

Tamping down the mental image of _Resurrection _cologne, he sprinkled the herbs over the candle. The leaves and buds shriveled and blackened under the orange flame and the room filled with heady gray smoke.

A dazzling, soundless, flash of lighting burst through the house, and Dean jumped swearing. He then looked around, chagrined.

_"Arcesso vos transmaritanus de silenti" _

The rain finally began, hammering against the windows. The previously muted thunder crashed loud enough to rattle the panes of glass.

The storm had arrived.

_"Arcesso vos per harenae de aveus."_

Hushed whispers intermingled with his lower voice; Dean turned at the sound and caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. Inside the circle of salt, there was a distortion of the air as though it were touched by some flameless heat.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Gooseflesh swept over Dean's skin like icy ocean waves.

_"Venio meum."_

There was a deafening crash of thunder and he found himself staring down into black-ringed eyes where moments ago there had been nothing.

_"Phasma de mortura . . . Phasma . . ."_

Dean stumbled over the invocation and stopped, staring back. "Son of a bitch."

The ghost didn't move, crouched inside the ring of salt and Dean watched it warily, waiting for the susurrus it caused to fill his head until there was no room for anything but noise and pain. Instead, the whispers tapered off to a tolerable hiss, the sound ebbing and rising like ocean waves.

It looked like dozens of spirits he had encountered before: tattered, bloodied, still showing signs of whatever violence had created it. If he were completely honest, as far as ghosts went, this one was one of the tamer ones. It still had all its body parts anyway.

But when it stared up at him, its pale hands splayed against the floor, Dean had to forcibly quash the shiver that was trying to skitter up his spine.

Creepy-ass bastard.

"So," he said forcing away feeling, shutting the book with a snap. "I think it's time you and I had a long talk."

o()o

Sam banged through the door a little past midnight.

"It's pouring out there!"

Shaking the rain from his hair, he dropped his armload of bags and looked into the living room, searching for his brother. But, Dean was nowhere to be seen, his heap of blankets and _Atari _controller abandoned on the couch.

"Dean?"

Only silence greeted his call.

"Dean, you here?"

Still, no answer. The house was shadowy, quiet, and an odd smell hung in the air.

Sam huffed, shaking his head. "Dude, have you been smoking? You know it didn't turn out so great for you when you were twelve, and I'm pretty sure . . ." He stopped, spying a familiar silhouette. "Hey."

"Hey." Dean didn't move, didn't even turn to look his way. "Where's Bobby?"

"He ran into a friend at the bar, said he'd catch a ride back and sent me home with the groceries. I think they're going to be there for a while."

"Good."

"There wasn't a signal where we were," he offered, frowning at his brother's tone, "otherwise I would have called to let you know I was going to be late."

"Yeah, that would've been nice," Dean agreed dryly. "We were getting a little worried."

"We?" Sam asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Dean finally moved, turning his head and glancing to his left.

Following his brother's gaze, Sam felt his heart freeze in his chest.

There was a wide circle of salt on the floor of the dining room. Inside, surrounded by dozens of chalk symbols hunkered a ghost.

Its dark eyes were ringed with darker black, creating disfigured shadows and angles on its face, blood matted in long tangles of hair and stained shredded, dirty, clothing.

. "Gah!" Sam lurched backward, away from the grisly sight

Dean chuffed humorlessly. "You've sure got a way with words Sammy."

Blood rushed to Sam's face, half from surprise, and half from his reaction. "Dean what the hell?"

"The flying objects, breaking mirrors, all the crap that's been happening around here. It's been Casper the pain-in-the-ass ghost here trying to get my attention."

Sam stared at the specter, openmouthed. "What's it doing here?"

Dean shrugged, losing some of his cocky demeanor, and remained silent.

Sam felt his eyes go wide. His brother wouldn't have . . . he _couldn't_ have . . . there was no way . . .

Oh God.

"You conjured it?" Sam's voice rose, keeping pace with his flaring temper. "You conjured this thing?? Dean!"

"Well, I was trying to order a pizza," Dean shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "I guess I got the wrong number."

"That's not funny."

"Come on, It's a little funny."

"No," Sam gestured angrily, "it's not! You can't just screw around with crap like this. It's stupid and it's _dangerous._"

Dean's eyes narrowed and Sam knew his big brother's patience was reaching an end. "Well, I did, Sam. So get over it."

"Get over it?" Sam's arm was beginning to tingle with the urge to strike out at his brother, and he clenched his hand into a fist. Wounded or not, he was going to beat the crap out of Dean for being such an idiot.

Dean glanced down at the fist and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, get over it, Sammy."

"And do what? Wait for you to do something like this again and get yourself killed?" He opened his arms wide, in an irate gesture. "Because that's what's going to happen, Dean. And Dad isn't around to sell his soul for you this time."

He heard Dean suck in a breath and then silence reigned supreme.

Sam took a step back, appalled by what he had said, and his arms fell to his sides, bravado gone. "Dean, I--"

Dean swallowed hard and looked away. "Shut up, Sam."

"Dean."

_"Shut. Up. Sam."_

Sam nodded meekly, his anger flushed away by guilt. "Did you find out what it's doing here?" he asked quietly turning to look at the ghost.

"Nope." Dean's reply was clipped, frustrated.

"Why not?"

The question was directed toward his brother, but the ghost answered instead. Face distorting like some macabre funhouse mirror, it opened its mouth revealing emptiness. Teeth, tongue, gums: everything was missing, replaced with an expanse of clotted darkness.

Sam stared. "What the hell? Dean . . . Dean?"

Dean's eyes were screwed shut, brows furrowed, a hand mashed against his forehead. His entire body was rigid, thrumming.

"Enough already," he gritted out.

The ghost closed its mouth and Dean groaned, some of the tension leaving him. "It can't tell us a damn thing and I don't know what to do with it now."

"I've got a tin of rock salt and a lighter that says otherwise."

"And what the hell am I going to burn, Sam?"

"Oh," Sam shook his head, eyebrows lifting. He was suddenly very, very glad he was not his brother. "Bobby is going to kill you."

o()o


End file.
